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TAUTAiy  /!«>  SaitiCtftCTfOH 


ISth  ANNIVERSARY 


ALL  STAR  ISSUE 


Science  Fid 


LEIGH  BRACKEn  ^ 
EDMOND  HAMILTON 
ROBERT  F.  YOUNG 
DAMON  KNIGHT 
R.  BRETNOR 
ISAAC  A5IMOv5^ 


CXn'OBER  Including  Venture  Science  Fiction 


Pm’ple  Priestess  of  the  Mad  Moon 

LEIGH  BRACKETT 

4' 

The  Pro 

EDMOND  HAMILTON 

21 

Stomata  THEODORE  L.  THOMAS 

33 

Maid  to  Measure 

DAMON  KNIGHT 

34 

Books 

AVRAM  DAVIDSON 

37 

little  Anton  (novelet) 

R.  BRETN(» 

42 

Science:  First  and  Rearmost 

ISAAC  ASIMOV 

66 

The  Year  of  the  Earthtnan 

HOGAN  SMITH 

76 

In  What  Cavern  of  the  Deep  (novelet) 

ROBERT  F.  YOUNG 

82 

F&SF  Marketplace 

129 

Cover  by  Cbesley  Bonestell  (see  page  81) 


Joseph  W.  Ferman,  pubusher  Avram  Davidson,  executive  editqb 

Isaac  Aswufv,  science  K}iT(Ht  Edward  L,  Permon,  i£ANA<HNG  ediha 

Ted  White,  assistant  editc« 


T%e  Magasina  of  Fantasy  amd  Science  PicUett,  Pdinne  27,  Ho.  4,  Whole  No.  161,  Oct. 
11^4,  Published  monthly  by  Mercury  Press,  Inc.f  at  404  o copy.  Annual  subscriptioH 
fC.SO;  fS.M  in  Canada  ana  the  Pan  American  Unton;  $5.50  m alt  o^icr  countries. 
cation  office,  14  Ferry  Street,  Concord,  N.  H.  Editorial  and  general  mail  should  be  sent  te 
S47  East'  53rd  St.,  New  Yor%,  N.  Y.  10022.  Second  Class  Pottage  paid  at  Concord,  N.  H, 
Printed  in  U.S.A.  © 1964  by  Mercury  Press,  Inc.  All  rights,  including  translations  into 
Other  languages,  reserved.  Submissions  must  be  accompanied  by  stamped,  self-addressed 
envelopes;  the  Publisher  assumes  no  responsibility  for  return  of  unsolicited  manuscripts. 


In  the  February  1955  issue  of  F6-SF,  Anthony  Boucher  began  his^ 
introduction  to  THE  TIVEENEB^  "a  poignant  story  of  the  near  fu- 1 
ture”  with  these  words:  Leigh  Brackett  is  the  acknowledged  mis- 
tress of  the  flamboyant  interplanetary  adventure.  No  one  can 
rival  her  in  telling  such  a story  as,  say,  Purple  Priestess  of  the  Mad 
Moon  so  skillfully  and  even  artistically  that  readers  normally  al- 
lergic to  such  extravaganzas  are  astonished  to  find  themselves 
enjoying  it.  The  story  was  subsequently  translated  and  printed 
in  Fiction,  our  French  counterpart;  the  introducer  described  the 
author,  accurately,  as  femme  d’Edmond  Hamilton— and  then,  mis- 
taking Mr.  Bouchei^s  fictional  exemplum  as  a real  one,  went  on  to 
attribute  to  her  the  authorship  of  IV^tresse  Pourpre  de  la  Lune 
Fouel  This  unintentional  error  thus  perpetuated  as  fact.  Miss 
Brackett  found  herself  being  asked  over  and  over  again  where 
this  story  had  appeared,  and  where  copies  of  it  might  be  pro- 
cured! When  we  asked  her  to  write  a story  to  accompany  her  hus- 
band's on  the  occasion  of  their  being  foint  Guests-of-Honor  at  the 
World  Science  Fiction  Convention  in  Oakpind,  lights  began  to 
flash.  The  happy  thought  occurred  to  her  that,  since  FiySF  had 
launched  this  non-existent  story  on  its  curious  career,  F6-SF 
ought  to  set  matters  straight  by  printing  it;  we  agreed  to  do  so  if 
she  would  write  it;  and  she  has  now  in  fact  done  so! 

*T  was  horn  in  Los  Angeles  [writes  Leigh  Brackett],  privately 
(and  rather  haphazardly)  educated,  grew  up  on  a California 
beach  a peculiar  amalgam^  of  beachcomber  and  bookworm 
—i.e.  when  I wasn't  swimming  or  fishing,  1 was  reading.  And  de- 
cided to  he  a writer  at  age  13,  because  I couldn't  think  of  an  easier 
way  to  make  a living.  Hah!  Ten  years  later  I sold  my  first  story, 
and  of  course  by  that  time  1 was  hopelessly  hooked.  Anyway,  1 
love  to  write.  Particularly  Science  Fiction,  which  has  brought  me 
many  things  including  Edmond  Hamilton,  whom  I married  in 
1946,  after  we  had  been  introduced  by  our  mutual  agent  and 
friend,  Julius  Schwartz,  and  friend  and  editor  Mart  Weisinger, 
Have  worked  in  and  out  of  H oUywood  since  1943  and  am  currently 
back  at  it  again,  having  done  pix  for  Bogart,  John  Wayne,  and 
anonymously  (due  to  Guild  red  tape)  for  Rock  Hudson." 


The  Sterne  of  Mars  os'*,  » . a dosert  dying  planet  / and  s dgin^ 
race  of  men  . . has  haunted  writers  of  the  romantic  and  the 
fantastic  since  before  the  days  of  Burroughs.  Ray  Bradbury  (with 
whom  Miss  Brackett  collaborated  on  LORELEI  OF  THE  RED 
MIST)  has  dealt  with  it  more  than  merely  admirably  in  his  THE 
MARTIAN  CHRONICLES  for  one;  for  another^  the  brilliance 
of  Roger  Zelazny’s  A ROSE  FOR  ECCLESIASTES  in  our  No- 
vembeTy  1963  issue  will  not  soon  be  forgotten.  Now  Leigh  Brackett 
bringe  to  it  her  own  distinctive  crapsmanship,  and  brings  forth 
from  U a tale  of  love,  terror,  and  adventure  on  an  alien  soU  be- 
neath alien  skies. 


PUHPM.E  EHIESTESS 
OE  TBE  MAU  MOOISi 

by  Leigh  Brackett 


In  the  observation  bcbble 
of  the  TSS  Goddard  Harvey  Sel- 
watched  the  tawny  face  the 
planet  grow.  He  could  make  out 
riwe-red  deserts  where  tiny  sand- 
storms blew,  and  dark  areas  of 
ve^tation  like  textured  silk.  Once 
or  twice  he  caught  the  bright  flash 
oHF  water  from  one  of  the  canals. 
He  sat  motionless,  rapt  and  de- 
lighted. He  had  been  afraid  that 
confrontation  would  offer 
very  little  to  his  emotions;  he  had 
since  childhood  witnessed  innu- 
merable identical  approaches  on 
the  tri-di  scr^n,  which  was  al- 


most die  same  as  being  there  one’s 
self.  But  the  actuality  had  a flavor 
and  imminence  that  he  found  im-* 
mensely  thrilling. 

After  all,  an  alien  planet  . , . 

After  all.  Mars  . . . 

He  was  almost  angry  when  he 
realized  that  Bentham  had  come 
into  the  buttle.  Bentham  was 
Ihird  Officer  and  at  his  age  this 
was  an  admission  of  faikire.  The 
reason  for  it,  Selden  thought,  was 
stamped  quite  clearly  <m  his  fa<^» 
and  he  felt  sorry  for  Bentham  as 
he  felt  smry  for  anyone  afflicted 
with  alcoholic.  Stlll>  the  man 


5 


6 


FANTASY  ANI>  SGIENCB  FICTION 


was  friendly  and  he  had  seemed 
much  impressed  by  Sclden’s 
ImowSedge  of  Mars.  So  Selden 
smiled  and  nodded. 

"Quite  a thrill,”  be  said. 

Bentham  glanced  at  the  on- 
rushing  planet.  "It  always  is,  You 
know  anybody  down  there?” 

"Na  But  after  I check  in  with 
the  Bureau  . . . 

"When  will  you  do  that?” 

‘Tomorrow.  I mean,  counting 
from  after  we  land,  of  course  . . . 
a little  confusing,  isn’t  it,  this 
time  thing?”  He  knew  they  did 
three  or  fcnir  complete  orbits  on  a 
descending  spiral,  which  meant 
diree  or  four  days  and  nights. 

Bentham  said,  "But  in  the 
meantmie,  you  don’t  know  any- 
\body.” 

Selden  shook  his  head. 

"Well,”  said  Bentham,  "I’m 
having  chnner  with  some  Martian 
friends.  Why  don't  you  come 
along?  You  might  hnd  it  interest- 
ing.” 

said  Selden  eagerly,  “that 
would  be  . . . But  are  you  sure 
your  friends  won’t  mind?  I mean, 
an  unexpected  guest  dragged  in  at 
the  last  minute  . . 

‘"Ihey  won’t  mind,”  Bentham 
said.  TU  give  them  plenty  of 
warning.  Where  are  you  staying?” 

"The  Kabora-Hilton." 

"Of  course,”  said  Bentham. 
“I’ll  pick  you  up  around  seven.” 
He  smiled.  “Kahora  time.” 

He  went  out,  leaving  Selden 
with  some  lingering  qualms  of 


doubt.  Bentham  was  perhaps  iK>t 
quite  the  person  he  would  have 
chosen  to  introduce  him  to  Mar- 
tian society.  Still,  he  was  an  offi- 
cer and  could  be  presumed  to  be  a 
gentleman.  And  he  had  been  on 
Mars  run  for  a long  time.  Of 
course-  he  would  have  friends,  and 
what  an  unlooked-for  and  won- 
derful chance  this  was  to  go  actu- 
ally into  a Martian  home  and  visit, 
with  a Martian  family.  He  was 
ashamed  of  his  momentary  un- 
easiness, and  was  able  to  analyze 
it  quite  quickly  as  being  based  in 
his  own  sense  of  insecurity,  which 
of  course  arose  from  being  faced 
with  a totally  unfamiliar  environ- 
ment. Once  he  had  brought  this 
negative  attitude  inm  the  open  it 
was  easy  to  correct  it.  After  a quar- 
ter of  an  hour  of  positive  therapy 
he  found  himself  hardly  able  to 
wait  for  the  evening. 

Kahora  had  grown  in  half  a 
century.  Originally,  Selden  knew, 
it  had  been  founded  as  a Trade 
City  under  the  infamous  old  Um- 
brella Treaty,  so-called  because  It 
could  be  manipulated  to 
anything,  which  had  been  con- 
cluded between  the  then  World 
Government  of  Terra  and  the  im- 
poverished Martian  Federation  of 
City-States.  At  that  time  the  city 
was  housed  under  a single  dome, 
climate-conditioned  for  the  com- 
fort of  the  outworld  traders  and 
politicians  who  frequented  it  ami 
who  were  unused  to  the  rigors  of 


7 


vmirvt  rXstSTBSi  tsv  nm  mad  moon 


cold  and  thin-alred  Man.  In  ad* 
dition  to  die  climate,  various  other 
luxuries  were  installed  in  the 
Trade  Cities,  so  that  they  bad 
been  comparw!  with  certain  Bibli- 
cal locales,  and  crimes  of  many 
different  sorts,  even  murder,  had 
been  known  to  occur  in  them. 

But  all  of  diat,  or  nearly  all  of 
that,  was  in  the  bad  old  days  of 
iaissez-faire,  and  now  Kahora  was 
the  administrative  capital  of  Mars, 
sheltered  under  a complex  of  eight 
shining  domes.  From  the  space- 
port fifteen  miles  away,  Selden 
^w  the  city  as  a pale  shimmer  of 
go!»^er  bubbles  touche  by  the 
km  sim.  As  the  ^aceport  skimmer 
&w  him  across  the  intervening 
mil^  of  red  sand  and  dark  green 
ne^s-grass,  he  saw  the  lights  come 
on  in  the  quick  dusk  and  the 
Imiidings  underneath  die  domes 
tose  and  tocdc  shape,  clean  and 
graceful  and  clothed  in  radiance. 
He  thought  that  he  had  never  seen 
anything  so  beautiful.  From  the 
landing  stage  inside  one  of  the 
^nnes  a silent  battery-powered 
took  him  to  his  hotel  along 
gracious  streets,  where  the  lights 
^owed  and  people  of  many  races 
walked  leisurely.  The  whole  trip, 
ftmn.  debarkation  to  hotel  lobby, 
was  accomplished  in  completely 
air-conditioned  comfort,  and  Sel- 
den  was  not  sorry.  Tlie  landscape 
locked  awfully  bleak,  and  one 
seeded  only  to  glance  at  it  to 
luiow  that  it  was  damnably  cold, 
befmre  Oxi  skimmer  entered 


t!ie  ahrlock  It  crossed  the  Kahom 
canal,  and  the  water  looked  like 
black  ice.  He  knew  that  be  imght 
have  to  cope  with  all  this  pre- 
sently, but  he  was  not  in  any  ^r- 
ry. 

Selden’s  itxmi  was  pleasanffy 
homdikc  and  the  view  of  the  city 
was  superb.  He  showered  and 
shaved,  dressed  in  his  best  dark 
silk,  and  then  sat  fi>r  a while  on 
his  small  balcony  overlooking  the 
Triangle  with  the  Three  Worlds 
represented  at  its  apices.  The  air 
he  breathed  was  warm  and  faintly 
K:ented.  TTie  city  sounds  that  rose 
to  him  were  {deasantly  subdued. 
He  began  to  run  over  in  his  mind 
the  rules  he  had  learned  for  proper 
behavior  in  a Martian  house,  the 
ceremOTiial  phrases  and  gestures. 
He  wondered  whether  Bentham's 
friends  would  speak  High  o**  Low 
Martian.  Low,  probably,  since  that 
was  most  commonly  in  use  with 
outsiders.  He  hoped  his  accent 
was  not  too  bari^roiR.  On  the 
whole  he  felt  adequate.  He  leaned 
back  in  his  comft)rtabIe  dfia^ 
and  found  himself  looking  at  the 
sky. 

There  were  two  moons  in  it, 
racing  high  above  the  ^w  ^lid 
dlst^p^n  of  die  dome.  And  for 
some  reason,  although  he  knew 
perfectly  well  that  Mars  bad  two 
moons,  this  bit  of  alienage  had  a 
powerful  effect  on  him.  For  the 
first  time  he  realized,  hot  merely 
with  his  intellect  but  with  his 
heart  and  bowels,  that  he  was  on  a 


8 

strange  worid  a long,  long  vfay 
from  home. 

He  went  down  to  the  Irar  to 
wait  for  Bentham. 

The  man  arrived  in  good  time, 
freshly  turned  out  in  civilian  silks 
and,  Selden  was  glad  to  see,  per- 
fectly sober.  He  bought  him.  a 
drink  and  then  followed  him  into 
a cab,  which  bore  them  quietly 
from  die  central  dome  into  one  of 
the  outer  ones. 

“The  original  one,”  Bentham 
said.  "It’s  chieiSy  residential  now. 
The  buildings  are  older,  but  very 
comfortable."  They  were  halted  at 
a concourse  waiting  for  a flow  of 
cr(^s  traffic  to  pass  and  Bentham 
pointed  at  the  dome  roof.  “Have 
you  seen  the  moons?  They’re  both 
in  the  sky  now.  That's  the  thing 
people  seem  to  notice  the  most 
when  they  first  land." 

‘Tes,”  Selden  said.  “IVe  seen 
them.  It  is  . . . uh  . . . strik- 
ing." 

“The  one  we  call  Deimos  . . . 
that  one  there  ...  the  Martian 
name  is  Vashna,  of  course  . . . 
that’s  the  one  that  in  certain 
phases  was  called  the  Mad  Moon.” 

“Oh  no,”  Selden  said.  “That  was 
Phobos.  Denderon.” 

Bentham  gave  him  a look  and 
he  reddened  a bit.  “I  mean,  I 
diink  it  was.’’  He  knew  damn  well 
it  was,  but  after  all  . . . “Of 
course  you’ve  been  here  many 
times,  and  1 could  be  mistaken 

Bentham  shmgged.  “Easy 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

enough  to  settle  it.  We'll  ask 
Mak." 

"Who?” 

"Firsa  Mak.  Our  host.” 

“Oh,"  said  Selden,  “I  wouldn’t 

But  the  cab  sped  on  then  and. 
Bentham  was  pointing  out  some 
other  thing  of  interest  and  the  sub- 
ject passed. 

Almost  against  the  outer  curve 
of  the  dome  there  was  a building 
of  pale  gold  and  the  cab  stopped 
there.  A few  minutes  later  Selden 
was  being  introduced  to  Firsa 
Mak. 

He  had  met  Martians  before, 
but  only  rarely  and  never  in  situ. 
He  saw  a dark,  small,  lean,  catlike 
man  with  the  most  astonishing 
yellow  eyes.  The  man  wore  the 
traditional  white  tunic  of  the 
Trade  Cities,  exotic  and  very 
graceful.  A gold  earring  that  Sel- 
den recognized  as  a priceless  an- 
tique hung  from  his  left  earlobe. 
He  was  not  at  all  like  the  rather 
round  and  soft  Martians  Selden 
had  met  on  Terra.  He  flinched  be- 
fore those  eyes,  and  the  carefully 
mustered  words  of  greeting  stuck 
in  his  throat.  Then  there  was  no 
need  for  them  as  Firsa  Mak  shook 
his  hand  and  said,  “Hello.  W^- 
come  to  Mars.  Come  on  in.” 

A wiry  brown  hand  propelled 
him  in  the  most  friendly  fashion 
into  a large  low  room  with  a glass 
wall  that  looked  out  ffirough  the 
dome  at  the  moon-wasJied  desert. 
The  furniture  was  simple  modem 


PURFLB  PlUSmSS  OF  THE  MAO  MOOH 


Stuff  and  very  comfortable,  with 
here  and  there  a bit  of  sculpture 
or  a wall-plaque  as  fine  as,  but  no 
better  than,  the  Martian  hand- 
crafts obtainable  at  the  good  spe- 
cialty shops  in  New  York.  On  one 
of  the  couches  a very  long-legged, 
gaunt  and  white-haired  Earthman 
sat  drinking  in  a cloud  of  smoke. 
He  was  introduced  as  Altman.  He 
had  a face  like  otd  leather  left  too 
long  in"  the  sun,  and  he  looked  at 
Selden  as  from  a great  height  and 
a far  distance.  Curled  up  beside 
him  was  a dark  girl,  or  woman 
, . . Selden  could  not  decide 
which  because  of  the  smoothness 

her  face  and  the  too-great  wis- 
dom of  her  eyes,  which  were  as 
yellow  and  unwinking  as  Firsa 
Mak’s- 

“My  sister,”  Firsa  Mak  said. 
“Mrs.  Altman.  And  this  is  Leila.” 

He  did  not  say  exactly  who 
Leila  was,  and  Selden  did  not  at 
the  moment  care.  She  had  just 
come  in  from  the  kitchen  bearing 
a tray  of  something  or  other,  aiid 
she  wore  a costume  diat  Selden 
had  read  about  but  never  seen.  A 
length  of  brilliant  silk,  something 
between  red  and  burnt  orange, 
was  wrapped  about  her  hips  and 
caught  at  the  waist  by  a broad  gir- 
dle. Below  the  skirt  her  slim 
Inrown  ankles  showed,  with  anklets 

tiny  golden  bells  that  chimed 
&hitly  as  she  walked.  Above  the 
skirt^her  btxly  was  bare  and  splen- 
didly made.  A necklace  of  gold 
plaqaes  mtricately  pierced  and 


hammered  circled  her  throat,  and 
more  of  the  tiny  bells  hung  from 
her  ears.  Her  hair  was  long  and 
deeply  black  and  her  eyes  Were 
green,  with  the  most  enchanting 
tilt.  She  smiled  at  Selden,  and 
moved  away  with  her  elfin  music, 
and  he  stood  stupidly  staring  after 
her,  hardly  aware  that  he  had 
taken  a glass  of  dark  liquor’  from 
her  proffered  tray. 

Presently  Selden  was  sitting  on 
some  cushions  between  the  Alt- 
mans and  Firsa  Mak,  with  Ben- 
tham  opposite.  Leila  kept  moving 
distractingly  in  and  out,  keeping 
their  glasses  filled  with  the  pe- 
culiar smoky-tasting  hellfire. 

“Bentham  tells  me  you're  with 
the  Bureau  of  Interworld  Cul- 
tural Relations,”  Firsa  Mak  said.  ' 

“Yes,”  said  SeWen.  Altman  was 
looking  at  him  with  that  strange 
remote  glare,  making  hfen  feel 
acutely  uncomfortable. 

“Ah.  And  what  is  your  particu- 
lar field?” 

“Handcrafts.  Metalwork.  Uh 
. . . the  ancient  type  of  thing, 
like  that  . . He  indicated  Lei- 
la’s necklace,  and  she  smiled. 

“It  is  old,”  she  said,  and  her 
voice  was  sweet  as  the  chimmg 
bells.  "I  would  not  even  guess  how 
old.” 

'The  pierced  pattern,"  Sekfen 
said,  “is  characteretic  of  the  Sev- 
enteenth Dynasty  of  the  Khalide 
Kings  of  Jekkara,  udifch  lasted  for 
approximately  two  thousand  years 
at  the  period  when  Jekkara  was  de- 


10 

dining  from  her  position  as  a 
maritime  power.  The  sea  was  re- 
ceding significantly  then,  say  be- 
tween fourteen  and  sixteen  thou- 
sand years  ago.” 

“So  old?”  Leila  said,  and  fin- 
gered the  necklace  wonderingly. 

"That  depends,”  said  Bentham. 
“Is  it  genuine,  Leila,  or  is  it  a copy?” 

Leila  dropped  to  her  knees  be- 
side Selden.  “You  will  say.” 

Tliey  all  waited.  Selden  began 
to  sweat.  He  had  studied  hundreds 
©f  necklaces,  but  never  in  s*£m. 
Suddenly  he  was  not  sure  at  all 
whether  die  damned  thing  was 
genuine,  and  he  was  just  as  sud- 
denly positive  that  they  did  know 
and  were  needling  him.  The 
plaques  rose  and  fell  gently  to  the 
lift  of  Leila’s  breathing.  A faint 
dry  spicy  fragrance  reached  his 
nostrils.  He  touched  the  gold, 
lifted  one  of  the  plaques  and  felt 
of  it,  warm  from  her  flesh,  and 
yearned  for  a nice  uncomplicated 
textbook  that  had  diagrams  and  il- 
lustrations and  nothing  more  to 
take  your  mind  off  your  subject. 
He  was  tempted  to  tell  them  to  go 
to  hell.  They  were  just  waiting  for 
him  to  make  a mistake.  Then  he 
got  madder  and  bolder  and  he  put 
his  whole  hand  under  the  collar, 
lifting  it  away  fr<mi  her  neck  and 
(testing  the  weight  of  it.  It  was 
worn  thin  and  light  as  tissue  paper 
and  the  under  surface  was  still 
pocked  by  the  ancient  hammer 
strokes  in  the  particular  fashion  of 
the  Khalide  artificers. 


PANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  PICTION 

It  was  a terribly  crude  tost,  but 
his  blood  was  up.  He  k>oked  into 
the  tilted  green  eyes  and  said  au- 
thoritatively, “It’s  genuine.” 

“How  wonderful  that  you 
know!”  She  caught  his  hand  be- 
tween hers  and  pressed  \dt  and 
laughed  aloud  with  pleasure.  "You 
have  studied  very  long?” 

“Very  long.”  He  felt  good  now. 
He  hadn’t  let  them  get  him  down. 
The  hellfire  had  worked  its  way 
up  into  his  head,  where  it  was 
buzzing  gently,  and  Leila’s  atten- 
tion was  even  more  pleasantly  in- 
toxicating. 

“What  will  you  do  now  with 
this  knowledge?”^ she  asked. 

“Well,”  he  said,  “as  you  know, 
so  many  of  the  ancient  skills  have 
been  lost,  and  your  people  are 
looking  for  ways  to  expand  their 
economy,  so  the  Bureau  is  hoping 
to  start  a program  to  reeducate 
metal-workers  in  places  like  Jek- 
kara  and  Valkis  . . 

Altman  said  in  a remote  and 
very  quiet  voice,  "Oh  good  God 
Albloodymighty.” 

Selden  said,  "I  beg  your  par- 
don?” . 

"Nothing,”  Altman  said.  “Noth- 
ing.” 

Benth»n  turned  to  Firsa  Mak. 
“By  the  way,  Selden  and  I had  a 
difference  of  opinion  on  the  way 
here.  He’s  probably  right,  but  I 
said  I’d  ask  you  . . .” 

Selden  said  hastily,  "Oh,  let’s 
forget  it,  Bentham.”  But  Bentham 
was  obtuse  and  insistent. 


11 


PURPLE  PMES7SSS  OP  THE  MAO  MOON 


*T1ie  Mad  Moon,  Firsa  Mak.  I 
say  Va«kna,  he  says  Denderon." 

"Dcndcron,  of  course,”  said 
Firsa  Mak,  and  lookol  at  Selden. 
"So  you  know  all  about  that,  too.” 

"Oh,"  said  Selden,  embarrassed 
and  annoyed  with  Bentham  for 
bringing  it  up,  "please,  we  thor- 
mighly  understand  that  that  was 
all  a mistake.” 

Altman  leaned  forward.  “Mi?" 
take?” 

"Certainly.  The  early  accounts 
. . He  looked  at  Firsa  Mak  and 
his  sister  and  Leila  and  they  all 
seemed  to  be  waiting  for  him  to 
go  on,  so  he  did,  uncomfortably. 

mean,  they  resulted  from  dis- 
tc^ons  of  folklore,  misinterpreta- 
tion of  local  customs,  pure  igno- 
rance ...  in  some  cases,  they 
were  downright  lies.”  He  waved 
his  hand  deprecatingly.  "We  don’t 
believe  in  the  Rites  of  the  Purple 
Priestess  and  all  that  nonsense. 
That  is  to  say,  we  don’t  believe 
idiey  ever  occurred,  really.” 

He  hoped  that  would  close  the 
subject,  but  Bentham  was  deter- 
mined to  hang  to  it.  “IVe  read 
eye-witness  accounts,  Selden.” 

^Tabrlcations.  Traveller’s  tales, 
After  all,  the  Eardimen  who  first 
came  to  Mars  were  strictly  the  pi- 
ratical exploiter  type  and  were 
hardly  either  qualified  or  reliable 
observers  . . .” 

‘They  don't  need  us  any  more,” 
sa^  Altman  softly,  staring  at  Se!- 
den  but  not  seeming  to  see  him. 
"They  don't  need  us  at  all.’'  And 


he  muttered  sometidng  about 
winged  pigs  and  the  gods  of  the 
marketplace.  Selden  b^  a sudden 
horrid  certainty  that  Altman  was 
himself  one  those  early  piratical 
exploiters  and  that  he  had  irrepa- 
rably insulted  him.  And  then 
Firsa  Mak  said  with  honest  curios- 
ity. 

"Why  is  it  that  all  you  young 
Earthmen  are  so  ready  to  cry  down 
the  things  your  own  people  have 
done?” 

Selden  felt  Altman's  eyes  upon 
him,  but  he  was  mto  this  now  and 
there  was  no  bacldng  down.  He 
said  with  quiet  dignity,  "Because 
we  feel  that  if  our  people  have 
made  mistakes  we  should  be  hon- 
est enough  to  admit  them.” 

“A  truly  noble  attitude,"  said 
Firsa  Mak.  "But  about  the  Purple 
Priestess  ...” 

'T  assure  you,”  said  Selden 
hastily,  "that  old  canard  is  long 
forgotten.  The  men  who  did  the 
serious  research,  the  anthropolo- 
gists and  sociologists  who  came 
after  the  . . . uh  . . . the  ad- 
venturers, were  far  better  qualified 
to  evaluate  the  data.  They  com- 
pletely demolished  the  idea  that 
the  rites  invdved  human  sacrifice, 
and  of  course  the  monstrous  Daric 
Lord  the  priestess  was  supposed  to 
serve  was  merely  the  memory  of 
an  extremely  ancient  earth-god 
. . . mars'god,  I should  say,  but 
you  know  what  I mean,  a primitive- 
nature  thing,  like  the  sky  or  the 
wind.” 


12 


Firsa  Mak  said  gently^ 
diere  was  a rite  . . 

"Well,  yes,”  said  Selden,  "un- 
doubtedly. But  the  experts  proved 
that  it  was  purely  vestigial,  like 
. . . well,  like  our  own  children 
dancing  around  the  Maypole." 

"The  Low-Canallers,”  said  Alt- 
man, "never  danced  around  any 
Maypoles.”  He  rose  slowly  and 
Selden  watched  him  stretch  higher 
and  higher  above  him.  He  must 
have  stood  a good  six  inches  over 
six  feet,  and  even  from  that  height 
his  eyes  pierced  Selden.  “How 
many  of  your  qualified  observers 
went  into  the  hills  above  Jekkara?" 

Selden  began  to  bristle  a bit. 
The  feeling  that  for  some  reason 
he  was  being  baited  grew  stronger. 
"You  must  know  that  until  very 
recently  the  Low-Canal  towns 
were  closed  to  Earthman  . . 

“Except  for  a few  adventurers.” 

“Who  left  highly  dubious  mem- 
oirs! And  even  yet  you  have  to 
have  a diplomatic  passport  in- 
volving mfies  of  red  tape,  and 
you’re  allowed  very  little  freedom 
of  movement  when  you  get  there. 
But  it  ts  a beginning,  and  we 
hope,  we  hope  very  greatly,  that 
we  can  persuade  the  Low-Canal- 
Uis  to  accept  our  friendship  and 
assistance.  It’s  a pity  that  their 
own  secretiveness  fostered  such  a 
bad  image.  For  decades  the  only 
ideas  we  had  of  the  Low-Canal 
towns  came  from  the  lurid  al- 
counts  of  the  early  travellers,  and 
foe  extremely  biased  ...  as  we 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

learned  later  . . - . attitude  of  the 
City-States.  We  used  to  think  of 
Jekkara  and  Valkis  as,  well,  per-, 
feet  sinks  of  iniquity  . . 

Altman  was  ^smiling  at  him. 
“But  my  dear  boy,”  he  said.  "They 
are.  They  are.” 

Selden  tried  to  disengage  his 
hand  from  Lella^s.  He  found  that 
he  could  not,  and  it  was  about 
then  that  he  began  to  be  just  the 
least  little  bit  frightened. 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  said 
plaintively.  “Did  you  get  me  here 
just  to  bait  me?  If  you  did,  I don’t 
think  it's  very  . . . Benfoam  ?” 

Bentham  was  at  the  door.  The 
door  now  seemed  to  be  much  far- 
ther away  than  Selden  rememp 
bered  and  there  was  a kind  of  mist 
between  him  and  it  so  that  Ben- 
tham's  figure  was  indistinct.  Nev- 
ertheless he  saw  it  raise  a hand 
and  heard  it  say,  "Good  by.”  Theii 
it  was  gone,  and  Selden,  feeling 
infinitely  forlmm,  turned  to  loc^ 
into  Leila’s  eyes.  “I  don’t  under’- 
stand,"  he  said.  "I  don't  under- 
stand." Her  eyes  were  green  and 
enormous  and  deep  without  limit. 
He  felt  himself  topple  and  fall 
giddily  into  the  abyss,  and  foen  of 
course  it  was  far  too  late  to  be 
afraid. 

Hearing  returned  to  him  first, 
with  the  steady  roar  of  jets,  and 
then  there  was  foe  bodily  rensa- 
tion  of  being  borne  through  ai^ 
that  was  shaken  occasionally  by 
large  turbulences.  He  opened  Jhls 


u 


PURPLE  PRIESTESS  OF  THE  MAD  MOON 


eyes,  in  wild  alarm.  It  was  several 
minutes  before  he  could  see  any- 
thing but  a thick  fog.  The  fog 
cleared  gradually  and  he  found 
himself  staring  at  Leila's  gold 
necklace  and  rem^nbering  with 
great  clarity  the  information  con- 
cerning it  that  he  had  rattled  off 
SO  glibly  and  with  such  modest 
pride.  A simple  and  obvious  trurii 
came  to  him. 

"You're  from  Jekkara,"  he  said, 
and  only  then  did  he  realize  that 
there  was  a gag  in  his  mouth.  Lei- 
la started  and  looked  down  at  him. 

"He's  awake.” 

Firsa  Mak  rose  and  bent  over 
Selden,  examining  the  gag  and  a 
set  of  antique  manacles  that 
bound  his  wrists.  Again  Selden 
ffinched  from  those  fierce  and  bril- 
liant eyes.  Firsa  Mak  seemed  to 
hesitate,  bn  the  verge  of  removing 
Ae  gag,  and  Selden  mustered  his 
voice  and  courage  to  demand  ex- 
planations. A buzzer  sounded  in 
die  cabin,  apparently  a signal 
from  the  pilot,  and  at  the  same 
time  the  motion  of  the  copter  al- 
tered. Firsa  Mak  shook  his  head. 

"Later,  Selden.  I have  to  leave 
jou  this  way  because  I can’t  trust 
you,  and  all  Our  lives  are  in  dan- 
ger, not  just  yours  . - . though 
yours  most  of  all."  He  leaned  for- 
ward. “This  is  necessary,  Selden. 
Believe  me.” 

"Not  necessary,"  Altman  said, 
appearing  stooped  under  the  cabin 
ceding.  "Vital.  You’ll  understand 
that,  later." 


Leila  said  harshly,  "1  wonder  if 
he  will.” 

"If  he  doesn't,”  Altman  said, 
"God  help  them  all,  because  no 
one  else  can.” 

Mrs.  Altman  came  with  a load 
of  heavy  cloaks.  They  had  all 
changed  their  clothes  since  Selden 
had  last  seen  them,  except  Leila, 
who  had  merely  added  an  upper 
garment  of  native  wool.  Mrs.  Alt- 
man now  wore  the  Low-Canal 
garb,  and  Firsa  Mak  had  a crim- 
son tunic  held  with  a wide  belt 
around  his  hips.  Altman  looked 
somehow  incredibly  right  in  the 
leather  of  a desert  tribesman;  he 
was  too  tall,  Selden  guessed,  tb 
pass  for  a Jekkaran.  He  wore  the 
desert  harness  easily,  as  though  he 
had  worn  it  many  times.  They 
made  Selden  stand  while  they 
wrapped  a cloak  around  him,  and 
he  saw  that  he  had  been  stripped 
of  his  own  clothing  and  dressed 
in  a tunic  of  ochre-yellow,  and 
where  his  limbs  showed  they  had 
been  stained  dark.  Then  they 
strapped  him  into  his  seat  again 
and  waited  while  the  copter 
slowed  and  dropped  toward  a 
landing. 

Selden  sat  rigid,  numb  with 
fear  and  shock,  going  over  and 
over  in  his  mind  the  steps  by 
which  he  had  come  here  and  try- 
ing to  make  sense  out  of  them.  He 
could  not.  One  thing  was  certain, 
Bentham  had  deliberately  led  him 
into  a trap.  But  why?  Wky? 
Where  were  they  taking  hijn,  what 


14 


did  they  mean  to  do  with  him?  He 
tried  to  do  positive  therapy  but  it 
was  difficult  to  temember  all  the 
wisdom  that  bad  sounded  so  in- 
finitely wise  when  he  had  heard 
it,  and  his  eyes  kept  straying  to 
the  faces  of  Altman  and  Firsa 
Mak. 

There  was  a quality  about  them 
both,^  something  strange  that  he 
had  never  seen  before.  He  tried  to 
analyze  what  it  was.  Their  flesh 
apt^r^  to  be  harder  mid  drier 
and  tougher  than  normal,  their 
muscles  more  fibrous  and  promi- 
nent, and  there  was  something 
about  the  way  they  used  md  car- 
ried themselves  that  reminded  him 
of  die  large  carnivores  he  had  seen 
in  die  zoo  i»rks.  There  was,  even 
nHMre  striking,  an  ^pressioii  about 
the  eyes  and  mouth,  and  Selden 
realiz^  ffiat  these  were  vtolent 
men,  men  who  could  strike  and 
tear  and  perhaps  even  kill.  He  was 
afraid  of  them.  And  at  the  same 
time  he  felt  superior.  He  at  least 
was  above  all  that. 

The  sky  had  paled.  Selden 
could  see  desert  racing  past  below. 
They  settled  onto  it  with  a great 
spuming  of  dust  and  sand.  Alt- 
man and  Firsa  Mak  between  them 
half  carried  him  out  of  the  copter. 
Their  strength  was  appalling. 
They  moved  away  from  the  copter 
and  the  backwash  of  the  rotors 
beat  them  as  it  took  off.  Selden 
was  stricken  by  the  thin  air  and 
bitter  cold.  His  bones  felt  brittle 
and  his  lungs  were  full  of  knives. 


PAWTAST  ANO  SCIElfCB  PtCTTON 

'Hie  others  did  not  seem  to.  mind. 
He  pulled  his  cloak  tight  around 
him  as  well  as  he  could  with  his 
bound  hands,  and  felt  his  teedi 
diattering  into  the  gag.  Abrupt^ 
Leila  reached  out  and  pulled  tile 
hood  completely  down  over  his 
face.  It  h^  two  eyeholes  so  th^ 
it  could  be  used  as  a mask  during 
sandstorms,  but  it  stifled  him  and 
it  smelled  strangely.  He  had  never 
felt  so  utterly  miserable. 

Dawn  was  turning  the  (^ert  to 
a rusty  red.  A chain  of  time-eaten 
mountains,  barren  as  the  fossil 
vertebrae  of  some  forgotten  mon- 
ster, curved  across  the  nortlsCTn 
horizon.  Close  at  hand  was  a tum- 
bled mass  of  rocky  outcrc^, 
carved  to  fantastic  shapes  by  wind 
and  sand.  From  among  these  rodcs 
there  came  a caravan  . 

Selden  heard  the  bells  and  the 
padding  o*  broad  splayed  hoofs. 
The  beasts  were  familiar  to  him 
from  pictures.  Seen  in  their  actual 
s^ly  reality,  moving  across  the 
red  sand  in  that  wild  daybreak 
with  their  burdens  and  their  hood- 
ed riders,  they  were  apparitiwis 
from  some  older  and  uglier  time. 
'Hiey  came  close  and  stopped, 
hissing  and  stamping  and  rolling 
their  cold  bright  eyes  at  Seldai, 
not  liking  the  smell  of  him  in 
spite  of  the  Martian  clothing  be 
wore.  They  did  not  seem  to  mind 
Altman.  Perhaps  he  had  lived 
with  the  Martians  so  long  ffiat 
there  was  no  difference  now. 

Firsa  Mak  spoke  briefly  with  the 


PURPi^  PRIESTESS  OF  TBE  MiW  MOON 


leader  of  the  caravan.  The  meet- 
ing had  obviously  been  arranged, 

' for  led  ^imals  were  brought.  The 
women  mounted  easily.  Seldcn's 
stconach  turned  over  at  the  idea  ©f 
actually  riding  one  of  these  crea- 
tures. Still,  at  the  moment,  he  was 
even  more  afraid  of  being  left  be- 
hind, so  he  made  no  protest  -ndien 
Firsa  Mak  and  Altman  heaved 
him  up  onto  the  saddle  pad.  One 
, . of  them  rode  on  each  side  of  him, 

^ holding  a lead  rein.  The  caravan 
^ moved  on  again,  northward  to- 
' ward  the  mountains. 

Within  an  hour  Selden  was 
suffering  acutely  from  cold,  thirst, 
and  the  unaccustomed  exercise. 
By  noon,  when  they  halted  to  rest» 
he  was  almost  unconscious.  Alt- 
f man  and,  Firsa  Mak  helped  him 
( down  and  then  carried  him 
« around  into  some  rocks  where  they 
[ took  the  gag  out  and  gave  him  wa- 
I'fe  |er.  The  sun  was  hi^  now,  pierc- 
I ing  the  thin  atmosphere  like  a 
r burning  lance.  It  scalded  Selden's 
1 : cheeks  but  at  least  he  was  warm, 
or  almost  warm.  He  wanted  to 
S ' stay  where  he  was  and  die.  Alt- 
man  was  quite  brutal  about  it. 
j "You  wanted  to  go  to  Jekkara,” 
1-  he  said.  “Well,  you're  going  . . . 
fc;  Just  a little  bit  earlier  than  you 
“ planned,  that's  all.  What  the  heU, 
boy,  did  you  think  it  was  all  hke 
Ki^ora?” 

And  he  heaved  Selden  onto  his 
inount  again  and  they  went  on. 

In  midaftemoon  the  wind  got 
up.  It  never  really  seemed  to  stop 


blowii^  but  in  a tired  sort  of  way, 
wandering  across  tl^  sand,  pick- 
ing up  a bk  of  dust  and  dropping 
it  again,  chafing  the  upthrust 
rocks  a little  deeper,  stroking  the 
ripple-patterns  into  a different  de- 
sign. Now  it  seemed  impatient 
with  everything  it  had  done  and 
determined  to  wipe  it  out  and 
start  fresh.  It  gathered  itself  and 
rushed  screaming  across  the  land, 
and  it  seemed  to  Selden  that  the 
whole  desert  took  up  and  went 
Hying . in  a red  and  strangling 
cloud.  The  sun  w^nt  out.  He  lost 
sight  of  Altman  and  Firsa  Mak  at 
either  end  of  his  reins.  He  hung  in 
abject  terror  to  his  saddle  pad, 
watching  for  the  small  segment  of 
rein  he  could  see  to  go  s^k,  when 
he  would  know  that  he  was  irre- 
trievably lost.  Then  as  abruptly  as 
it  had  risen  the  wind  dropped  and 
the  sand  resumed  its  quiet,  eternal 
rolling. 

A little  while  after  that,  in  the 
long  red  light  from  the  west,  they 
dipped  down  to  a line  of  dark  wa- 
ter strung  glittering  through  the 
desolation,  banded  with  strips  of 
green  along  its  sides.  There  was  a 
smell  of  wetness  and  growing 
things,  and  an  ancient  bridge,  and 
beyond  the  canal  was  a city,  with 
the  barren  hills  behind  it. 

Selden  knew  that  he  was  look- 
ing at  Jekkara.  And  he  was  struck 
with  awe.  Even  at  this  late  day 
few  Earthmen  had  seen  it.  He 
stared  through  the  eyeholes  of  his 
hood,  seeing  at  first  only  the  larger 


masses  of  roared  rock,  and  then 
as  die  sun  sank  lower  and  the 
shadows  lifted,  making  out  the 
individual  shapes  of  buildings 
diat  melted  more  and  more  gently 
into  die  parent  rock  the  higher 
diey  were  on  the  sloping  chfEs.  At 
one  place  he  saw  the  ruins  of  a 
great  walled  casde  that  he  knew 
had_once  hcnised  those  self-same 
Khalide  Kings  and  lord  kr^w  how 
many  dynasties  before  diem  in  the 
days  wh«i  diis  desert  was  the  bot- 
tom of  a blue  sea,  and  there  was  a 
hothouse  still  standing  above  the 
basin  of  a dry  harbor  half  way  up 
tihie  cliffs,  He  diiveied,  feding  the 
enormous  weight  of  a history  in 
which  he  and  his  had  had  no  part 
whatever,  and  it  came  to  him  that 
he  had  perhaps  been  just  the 
tiniest  bit  presumptuous  in  his  de- 
sire to  teach  diese  people. 

That  feehng  lasted  him  half 
way  across  the  bridge.  By  that 
time  the  western  light  had  gone 
and  the  torches  were  flaring  in  the 
streets  of  Jekkara,  shaken  by  the 
dry  wind  foom  the  desert.  His  fo- 
cus of  interest  shifted  from  the 
dien  to  the  now,  and  once  more  he 
shivered,  but  for  a different  rea- 
son. The  upper  town  was  dead. 
The  lower  town  was  not,  and  there 
was  a quality  to  the  sight  and 
sound  and  smell  of  it  that  petri- 
fied him.  Because  it  was  exactly 
as  the  early  adventurers  in  their 
dubious  memoirs  had  described  it. 

The  caravan  reached  the  broad 
square  that  fronted  the  canal,  the 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FX^SON 

b^sts  picking  their  way  protest- 
ingly  over  the  sunken,  pav- 

ing stones.  Peo{^  came  to  meet 
them.  Without  his  noticing  it,  Ak- 
man  and  Firsa  Mak  had  maneu- 
vered Selden  to  the  end  of  the 
and  now  he  found  himself  being 
detached  and  quietly  Led  away  up 
a narrow  street  between  low  siaae 
buildings  with  deep  docnrways  and 
small  window-places,  all  their 
corners  worn  round  and  smooth  as 
stream-bed  rocks  by  time  and  the 
rubbing  of  countless  hands  and 
shoulders.  There  was  something 
going  on  in  the  town,  he  thought, 
because  he  could  hear  the  voices  of 
many  pieople  from  somewhere  be- 
yond, as  though  they  were  gadier- 
ing  in  a central  place.  The  air 
smelled  of  cold  and  dust,  and  un- 
familiar spices,  and  less  identifi- 
able things, 

' Altman  and  Firsa  Mak  lifted 
Selden  down  and  held  him  until 
his  legs  regained  some  feeling. 
Firsa  Mak  kept  glancing  at  the  sky. 
Altman  leaned  close  to  Selden  and 
whispered,  “Do  exactly  as  we  tefl 
you,  or  you  tron’t  last  the  night.” 

“Nor  will  we,”  muttered  Firsa 
Mak,  and  he  tested  Selden’s  gag 
and  made  sure  his  cowl  was  pulled 
down  to  hide  his  face.  “It’s  almost 
time.” 

They  led  Selden  quickly  along 
another  winding  street,  llus  one 
was  busy  and  populous.  There 
were  sounds  and  sweet  pungent 
odors  and  strange-colored 
and  there  were  into  widk- 


P&ISSTESS  OF  THE  MAS  MOON 


ednesses  of  such  fantastic  array 
and  imaginative  genius  that  Sel- 
den’s  eyes  bulged  behind  his  cowl 
and  he  remembered  his  Seminars 
in  Martian  Culture,  with  a species 
of  hysteria.  Then  they  came  out 
into  a broad  square. 

It  was  full  of  people,  cloaked 
against  the  night  wind  and  stand- 
ing quietly,  their  dark  faces  still 
in  the  shaking  light  of  the  torches. 
They  seemed  to  be  watching  the 
sky.  Altman  and  Firsa  Mak,  with 
Selden  held  firmly  between  them, 
melted  into  the  edges  of  the  crowd. 
They  waited.  From  time  to  time 
more  people  came  from  the  sur- 
rounding streets,  making  no  sound 
except  for  the  soft  slurring  of  san- 
dalled feet  and  the  faint  elfin 
chiming  of  tiny  bells  beneath  the 
cloaks  of  the -women.  Selden  found 
himself  watching  the  sky,  though 
he  did  not  understand  why.  The 
crowd  seemed  to  grow  more  silent, 
to  hold  all  breath  and  stirring,  and 
then  suddenly  over  the  eastern 
roofs  came  the  swift  moon  Den- 
deron,  low  and  red. 

The  crowd  said,  “Ah-h-h!”,  a 
long  musical  cry  of  pure  despair 
that  shook  Selden’s  heart,  and  in 
the  same  moment  harpers  who  had 
been  concealed  in  the  shadow  of 
a time-worn  portico  struck  their 
double-banked  harps  and  the  cry 
became  a chant,  half  a lament  and 
half  a proud  statement  of  undying 
hate.  The  crowd  began  to  move, 
with  the  harpers  leading  and  other 
men  carrying  torches  to  light  the 


17 

way.  And  Selden  went  with  them, 
up  into  the  hills  behind  Jekkara. 

It  was  a long  cold  way  under  the 
fleeting  light  of  Denderon.  Selden 
felt  the  dust  of  millennia  grate  and 
crunch  beneath  his  sandals  and 
the  ghosts  of  cities  passed  him  to 
the  right  and  left,  ruined  walls 
and  empty  marketplaces  and  the 
broken  quays  where  the  ships  of 
the  Sea-Kings  docked.  The  wild 
fierce  music  of  the  harps  sustained 
and  finally  dazed  him.  The  long 
chanting  line  of  people  strung 
out,  moving  steadily,  and  there 
was  something  odd  about  the  meas- 
ured rhythm  of  their  pace.  It  was 
like  a march  to  the  gallows. 

The  remnants  of  the  works  of 
man  were  left  behind.  Tlie  barren 
hills  bulked  against  the  stars, 
splashed  with  the  feeble  moon- 
light that  now  seemed  to  Selden  to 
be  inexpressibly  evil.  He  wondered 
why  he  was  no  longer  frightened. 
He  thought  perhaps  he  had  reached 
the  point  of  complete  emotional  ex- 
exhaustion. At  any  rate  he  saw 
things  clearly  but  with  no  personal 
involvement. 

Even  when  he  saw  that  the  ha^ 
ers  and  the  torch-bearers  were  pass- 
ing into  the  mouth  of  a cavern  he 
was  not  afraid. 

The  cavern  was  broad  enough 
for  the  people  to  continue  march- 
ing ten  abreast.  The  harps  were 
muffled  now  and  the  chanting  took 
on  a deep  and  hollow  tone.  Selden 
felt  that  he  was  going  downward. 
A strange  and  rather  terrible  eager- 


18 

ness  be^n  to  in  him,  and  this 
he  could  not  explain  at  all.  The 
marchers  seemed  to  feel  it  too,  for 
4he  jMce  quickened  just  a little  to 
the  underlying  of  the  harpstrings. 
And  suddenly  the  rock  walls  van- 
ished out  of  sight  and  they  were  in 
a vast  cold  space  that  was  com- 
|detely  black  beyond  the  pinprick 
glaring  of  the  torches. 

The  chanting  ceased.  The  peo- 
ple filed  on  both  sides  into  a semi- 
circle and  stood  still,  with  the 
harpers  at  the  center  and  a little 
group  of  people  in  front  of  them, 
somehow  alone  and  separate. 

One  of  these  people  took  off  the 
omcealing  cloak  and  Selden  saw 
that  it  was  a woman  dressed  all  in 
purple.  For  some  obscure  reason  he 
was  sure  it  was  Leila,  though  the 
woman’s  face  in  the  torchlight 
showed  only  the  smooth  gleaming 
of  a silver  mask,  a very  ancient 
thing  with  a subtle  look  of  cruel 
compassion.  She  took  in  her  hands 
a p^e  globed  lamp  and  raised  it, 
and  the  harpers  struck  their  strings 
once.  The  other  persons,  six  in 
in  humter,  laid  aside  their  cloaks. 
They  were  three  men  and  three 
women,  all  naked  and  smiling,  and 
now  the  harps  began  a tune  that 
was  almost  merry  and  the  woman 
in  purple  swayed  her  body  in  time 
to  it.  The  naked  people  began  to 
dance,  their  eyes  blank  and  joyous 
with  some  powerful  drug,  and  she 
led  them  dancing  into  the  dark- 
ness, and  as  she  led  them  she  sang, 
a long  sweet  fluting  call. 


P^VTAST  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

The  harps  fell  silent.  Only  the 
woman’s  voice  sounded,  and  her 
lamp  shone  like  a dim  star,  far 
away. 

Beyond  the  lamp,  an  eye  opened 
and  looked  and  was  aware. 

Selden  saw  the  people,  the 
priestess  and  the  six  dancing  ones, 
limned  momentarily  against  that 
orb  as  seven  people  might  be 
limned  against  a risen  moon.  Then 
something  in  him  gave  way  and  he 
fell,  clutching  oblivion  to  him  like 
a saving  armor. 

They  spent  the  remainder  of 
that  night  and  the  following  day 
in  Firsa  Mak’s  house  by  the  dark 
canal,  and  there  were  sounds  of 
terrible  revelry  in  the  streets.  Sel- 
den sat  staring  straight  ahead,  his 
body  shaken  by  small  periodic 
tremors. 

^'It  isn’t  true,”  he  said,  again 
and  again.  “It  isn’t  true." 

"It  may  not  be  true,"  Altman 
- said , “but  it’s  a fact . And  it’s  the 
facts  that  kill  you.  Do  you  under- 
stand now  why  we  brou^t  you?" 

„“You  want  me  to  tell  the  Bureau 
about  . . . about  that." 

"The  Bureau  and  anyone  that 
will  listen.” 

“But  why  me?  Why  not  some- 
body really  important,  like  one  of 
the  diplomats?" 

"We  tried  that.  Remember 
Loughlin  Herbert?” 

"But  he  died  of  a heart  . . . 
Oh." 

"When  Bentham  told  us  about 


PURPLE  PRIESTE^  OP  THE  mAD  MOON 


19 


y&n/’  Firsa  Mak  said,  “you  seemed 
young  and  strong  enough  to  stand 
tfie  shock.  We've  done  all  we  can 
now,  Selden.  For  years  Altman 
and  I have  been  trying  . . .** 

‘^They  won't  listen  to  us,"  Ah- 
man  said.  "They  will  not  listen. 
And  if  they  keep  sending  people 
in,  nice  well-meaning  children 
and  their  meddling  nannies,  not 
knowing  ...  I simply  will  not  be 
responsible  for  the  consequences.” 
He  looked  down  at  Selden  from  his 
gaunt  and  weathered  height. 

Firsa  Mak  said  softly,  ‘This  is  a 
burden.  We  have  borne  it,  Selden. 
We  even  take  pride  in  bearing  it.” 
He  nodded  toward  the  unseen 
hills.  'That  has  the  power  of  de- 
struction. Jekkara  certainly,  and 
Valkis  probably,  and  Barrakesh, 
and  all  the  people  who  depend  on 
this  canal  for  their  existence.  It 
can  destroy.  We  know.  This  is  a 
Martian  affair  and  most  of  us  do 
not  wish  to  have  outsiders  brought 
into  it.  But  Altman  is  my  brother 
and  I must  have  some  care  for  his 
people,  and  I _ tell  you  that  the 
Priestess  prefers  to  choose  her  of- 
ferings from  among  strangers  . . 

Selden  whispered,  "How  often?” 

"Twice  a year,  when  the  Mad 
Moon  rises.  In  between,  it  sleeps.” 

Tt  sleeps,”  said  Altman.  "But  if 
it  should  be  roused,  and  fright- 
ened, or  made  angry  . . . For  God’s 
sake,  Selden,  tell  them,  so  that  at 
least  they’ll  know  what  they’re  get- 
ting into.” 

Selden  said  wildly,  '^How  can 


you  live  here,  vdth  that  . » * 

Firsa  Mak  looked  at  him,  sur- 
prised that  he  should  ask. 
he  said,  ‘'because  we  always  have.” 

Selden  stared,  and  thought, 
and  did  not  sleep,  and  once  he 
screamed  when  Leila  came  softly 
into  the  room. 

On  the  second  ni^t  they 
slipped  out  of  Jekkara  and  went 
back  across  the  desert  to  the  place 
of  rocks,  where  the  copter  was  wait- 
ing. Only  Altman  returned  widh 
Selden.  They  sat  silently  in  the 
cabin,  and  Selden  thought,  and 
from  time  to  time  he  saw  Altman 
watching  him,  and  already  in  his 
eyes  there  was  the  understanding 
of  defeat. 

The  glowing  domes  of  Kahora 
swam  out  of  the  dusk,  and  Den- 
deron  was  in  the  sky. 

"You’re  not  going  to  tell  them,” 
Altman  said. 

"I  don’t  know,”  whispered  Sel- 
den. "I  don’t  know.” 

Altman  left  him  at  the  landing 
stage.  Selden  did  not  see  him 
again.  He  took  a cab  to  his  hotel 
and  went  directly  to  his  room  and 
locked  himself  in. 

The  familiar,  normal  surround- 
ings aided  a return  to  sanity.  He 
was  able  to  marshall  his  thoughts 
more  calmly. 

If  he  believed  that  what  he  had 
seen  was  real,  he  would  have  to  tell 
about  it,  even  if  no  one  would  lis- 
ten to  him.  Even  if  his  superiors, 
his  teachers,  his  sponsors,  the  men 
he  venerated  and  whose  aji^roval 


he  yearned  for,  should  be  shocked, 
and  look  at  him  with  scorn,  and 
shake  their  heads,  and  forever 
close  their  doors  to  him.  Even  if  he 
should  be  condemned  to  the  outer 
darkness  inhabited  by  people  like 
Altman  and  Firsa  Mak.  Even  if. 

But  if  he  did  not  believe  that  it 
was  real,  if  he  believed  instead 
that  it  was  illusion,  hallucination 
induced  by  drugs  and  heaven 
knew  what  antique  Martian  chi- 
canery ...  He  had  been  drugged, 
that  was  certain.  And  Leila  had 
practised  some  sort  of  hypnotic 
technique  upon  him  . . . 

If  he  did  not  believe  . . . 

Oh  God,  how  wonderful  not  to 
believe,  to  be  free  again,  to  be  se- 
cure in  the  body  of  truth! 

He  thou^t,  in  the  quiet  and 
comforting  confines  of  his  room, 
and  the  longer  he  thought  the  more 
positive  his  thinking  became,  the 
more  free  of  subjectivity,  the  deep- 
er and  calmer  in  understanding. 
By  the  morning  he  was  wan  and 
haggard  but  he^ed. 

He  went  to  the  Bureau  and  told 
th^  that  he  had  been  taken  ill  im- 
mediately upon  landing,  which 
was  why  he  had  not  reported.  He 
also  told  them  that  he  had  had  ur- 
gent word  from  home  and  would 
have  to  return  there  at  once.  They 
were  very  sorry  to  lose  him,  but 
most  syznpathetic,  and  they  booked 


FAMTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

him  onto  the  first  available  Bight. 

A few  scars  remained  on  Sel- 
den’s  psyche.  He  could  not  bear 
bear  the  sound  of  a harp  nor  the 
sight  of  a woman  wearing  purple. 
These  phobias  he  could  have  put 
up  with,  but  the  nightmares  were 
just  too  much.  Back  on  Earth,  he 
went  at  once  to  his  analyst.  He  was 
quite  honest  with  him,  and  the 
analyst  was  able  to  show  him 
exactly  what  had  happened.  The 
whole  affair  had  been  a sex  fantasy 
induced  by  drugs,  with  the  Priest- 
ess a mother-image.  The  Eye  which 
had  looked  at  him  then  and  which 
still  peered  unwinking  out  of  his 
recurring  dreams  was  symbolic  of 
the  female  generative  principle, 
and  the  feeling  of  horror  it  aroused 
in  him  was  due  to  the  guilt-complex 
he  had  because  he  was  a latent 
homosexual.  Selden  was  enormous- 
ly comforted. 

The  analyst  assured  him  that 
now  that  things  were  healthily  out 
in  the  open,  the  secondary  effects 
would  fade  away.  And  they  might 
have  done  so  except  for  the  letter. 

It  arrived  just  six  Martian 
months  after  his  unfortunate  din- 
ner date  with  Bentham.  It  was  not 
signed.  It  said,  '“Leila  waits  for 
you  at  moonrise."  And  it  bore  the 
sketch,  very  accurately  and  quite 
unmistakably  done,  of  a ^ngle 
monstrous  eye. 


Mnu^  we  would  omU  references  to  the  Grand  Old  Days  of 
Magazine  Science  Fiction  for  fear  of  conjuring  up  images  tftat 
either  toe  or  the  author  of  this  story  are  confined  to  a bath-chair 
and  gout-stool  (neither  of  us  is;  and  mind  your  clumsy  feet)-^ 
but  accuracy  forbids.  In  the  Grand  Old  Days  of  'Magazine  S«?<- 
ence  Fiction,'  videlicet  the  otherwise  ruyn-grartd  30s,  then,  a quer- 
ulous reader  wrote  to  one  SF  magazine  and  complained  that 
*‘Edmond  Hamilton  is  always  saving  worlds  . . The  implioa- 
Hon  was  not  that  Mr.  Hamilton  collected  them  in  a morocco 
album,  but  that  his  stories  often  dealt  with  their  rescue  from  evU. 
Pax.  He  was  and  is  not  only  a realist  but  an  optimi^—both  attri- 
butes being  manifested  in  this  cool  and  competent  and  utterly 
believable  story  which  links  the  Science  Fiction  past  with  its  al- 
ready beginning-to-be-realized-and-vindicated-present.  Edmond 
Hamilton  appears  here  for  the  first  time  since  1954.  It  is  nice  to 
have  him  aboard  again.  - 

Mr.  Hamilton  writes  of  himself: 

“/  sometimes  feel  like  a time-traveller,  for  this  reason:  Fm  59 
years  old,  which  isnt  so  old  these  days  (it  isn’t,  is  it,  honest?)  But 
my  formative  first  7 years  were  spent  on  a Ohio  farm  so  far  back 
in,  that  it  must  have  had  a time-lag  of  a decade.  Horses  reared 
up  in  buggy-shafts  at  sight  of  an  automobile,  and  a steam- 
thre^ing-machine  was  a thing  which  frightened  me  horribly. 

Yet  last  month  I flew  home  from  London  in  a jet  in  5 or  6 hours, 
and  the  rockets  stand  on  the  launching-pads  ready  to  make  for 
ike  moon,  and  only  the  fact  that  I was  blessed  or  cursed  with  a 
science  fictional  imagination  has  prevented  me  from  exclaiming, 
“Stop  the  world,  etc.  ...” 

T wrote  my  first  s-f  story  when  I was  14.  It  was  **The  Plant  That 
Was  Alive.”  It  was  also  Terrible.  No  one  bought  it.  I was  at  that 
time,  however,  unquenchable.  ...  I was  a freshman  in  college 
and  supposed  to  be  a child  prodigy,  and  I took  that  serioudy  and 
loftily  ignored  study  and  broke  rules  and  got  canned  out  of  school 
after  three  years.  But  1 kept  trying  to  write  s-f,  and  m February, 
1926,  succeeded  in  selling  the  old  Weird  Tales. 

What  a thrill  it  was  when,  a month  later,  a science-fiction  maga- 


21 


zine  appeared!  A couple  of  years  later  when  a second  s-f  magazine 
appeared,  I decided  to  become  a professional  writer.  Tm  filled 
wUh  retrospective  admiration  for  a decision  so  coemically  heroic 
end  stupid.  To  make  matters  worse,  my  next  42  dories  sold  with- 
out a refection  . . . only  then  did  I start  to  get  the  bumps  and 
learn. 

But  Tve  stuck  to  it  ever  since.  I love  to  tell  adventure  stories 
and  have  told  hundreds  . . . hut  every  now  and  then  I want  to 
write  something  quite  di§erent.  THE  PRO  is  one  of  the  d^.0rent 
ones.** 


THE  PRO 


by  Edmond  Hamtlton 


The  rocket  stood  tall  and 
splendid,  held  for  now  in  the 
nurse-arms  of  its  gantry,  but  wait- 
ing, looking  up  and  waiting  . . . 

And  why  the  hell,  thought 
Burnett,  do  1 have  to  think  fiction 
l^rrases,  even  when  I’m  looking  at 
the  real  thing? 

“Must  give  you  kind  of  a creepy 
feeling,  at  that,”  Dan  said. 

"God,  yes.”  Burnett  moved  his 
shoulders,  half  grinning.  “Creepy, 
and  proud.  I invented  that  thing. 
Thirty  years  ago  come  August,  in 
my  “Stardream”  novel,  I designed 
her  and  built  her  and  launched  her 
and  landed  her  on  Mars,  and  got 
a cent  a word  for  her  from  the  old 
Wonder  Stories.” 


“Too  bad  you  didn*t  take  out  a 
patent.” 

“Be  glad  I didn’t,”  Burnett  said. 
“You're  gmng  to  fly  her.  My  Star- 
dream  was  prettier  than  this  one, 
but  only  had  two  short  paragraphs 
of  innards.”  He  paused^  nodding 
slowly.  “It’s  kind  of  fitting,  though, 
at  that.  It  was  the  Stardream 
check,  all  four  hundred  dollars  of 
it,  that  gave  me  the  brass  to  ask 
your  mother  to  marry  me.” 

He  looked  at  his  son,  the  slim 
kid  with  the  young-old  face  and 
the  quiet  smile.  He  could  admit  to 
himself  now  that  he  had  been  dis- 
appointed that  Dan  took  after  Im 
mother  in  dte  matter  of  build. 
Burnett  was  a big  man  himself, 


22 


THB  V90 

with  a large  bead  and  large  bands 
and  h^vy  shoulders,  and  Dan  had 
ahvays  seemed  sm^  and  almost 
frail  to  him.  And  now  here  was 
Dan  in  his  sun-£aded  khakis 
blooming  like  a rose  after  all  the 
pressure  tests  and  the  vertigo  tests 
mid  the  altitude  tests  and  the  vari- 
ous tortures  of  steel  chambers  and 
centrifuges,  tests  that  Burnett 
doubted  he  could  have  stood  up  to 
even  in  his  best  days.  He  was 
filled  with  an  unaccustomed  and 
embarrassing  warmth. 

"You  won’t  get  to  Mars  in  her, 
anyway, "he  said. 

Dan  laughed*  “Not  this  trip. 
We’ll  be  happy  to  settle  for  the 
Moon.” 

They  walked  on  across  the  sun- 
bhster^  apron,  turning  their 
backs  on  the  rocket.  Burnett  felt 
strangely  as  though  all  his  sensory 
nerve-ends  had  been  sandpapered 
raw  so  that  the  slightest  stimulus 
set  them  to  quivering.  Never  had 
the  sun  been  so  hot,  never  had  he 
been  K)  conscious  of  his  own 
prickling  skin,  the  intimate  smell 
of  clean  cotton  cloth  dampening 
with  sweat,  the  grit  of  blown  sand 
under  his  feet,  the  nearness  of  his 
son,  walking  close  beside  him  . , . 

Not  close  enough.  Not  ever 
close  enough. 

It  was  odd,  Burnett  thought, 
that  he  had  never  until  this  mo- 
Inent  been  aware  of  any  lack  in 
!^ir  relationship. 

Why?  Why  not  then,  and  why 


23 

They  walked  companionably  to- 
gether in  the  sun,  and  Burnettes 
mind  worked,  the  writer’s  mind 
trained  and  sharpened  by  thirty- 
odd  years  of  beating  a typewriter 
for  an  always  precarious  living,  the 
mind  that  could  never  any  more 
be  wholly  engulfed  in  any  person- 
al situation  but  must  stand  always 
in  some  measure  apart,  analytical 
and  cool,  Burnett  the  writer  look- 
ing at  Burnett  the  man  as  though 
he  were  a character  in  a story. 
Motivation,  man.  An  emotion  is 
unreal  unless  it’s  motivated,  and 
this  is  not  only  unmotivated,  it’s 
inconsistent.  It’s  not  in  character. 
People  often  seem  to  be  inconsist- 
ent but  they’re  not,  they  always 
have  a reason  for  everything  even 
if  they  don’t  know  it,  even  if  no- 
body knows  it,  and  so  what’s 
your’s,  Burnett?  Be  honest,  now. 
If  you're  not  honest  the  whole 
thing,  man  and/or  character,  goes 
down  the  drain. 

Why  this  sudden  aching  sense 
of  incompletion,  of  not  having 
done  so  many  things,  unspecified, 
for,  by,  and  with  this  apparently 
perfectly  happy  and  contented 
young  man? 

Because,  thought  Burnett.  Be- 
cause . . . 

The  heat  wavw  shook  and  shim- 
mered and  the  whitenesses  of  sand 
and  blockhouse  and  distant  build- 
ings were  unbearably  painful  to 
the  eye. 

"What’s  the  matter,  dad?”  asked 
Dan,  sharp  and  far  away. 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 


24 

“Nothing.  Just  the  light-^dw:- 
2^g  . . And  now  the  sweat 
was  cold  on  his  big  hard  body  and 
there  was  a cold  evil  inside  him, 
and  he  thought.  Well,  hell,  yes,  of 
course.  I’m  scared.  I’m  thinking 
. . . Go  ahead  and  drag  it  out,  it 
won*t  be  any  the  better  for  hiding 
away  there  inside  in  the  dark.  Fm 
thinking  that  this  boy  of  mine  is 
going  to  climb  into  that  beautiful 
horror  back  there,  not  very  many 
hours  from  now,  and  men  are  go- 
ing to  fasten  the  hatch  on  him  and 
go  away,  and  other  men  will  push 
buttons  and  light  the  fires  of  bell 
in  the  creature’s  tail,  and  that  it 
could  be,  it  might  be  . . . 

There’s  always  the  escape  tower. 

Sure  diere  is. 

Anyway,  there  you  have  it,  the 
simplest  motivation  in  the  world. 
The  sense  of  incompletion  is  not 
for  the  past,  but  for  the  future. 

"Sun’s  pretty  brutal  here  some- 
times,” Dan  was  saying.  "Maybe 
you  should  have  a hat  on .” 

Burnett  laughed  and  took  off 
his  sunglasses  and  wiped  die 
sweat-damp  out  of  his  eyes.  "Don’t 
sen  the  old  man  short  just  yet.  I 
can  still  break  you  in  two.”  He  put 
the  glasses  on  again  and  strode 
strongly,  cleanly,  beside  Dain.  Be- 
hind than  the  rocket  stood 
its  head  in  the  sky. 

In  the  common  room  of  the  as- 
tronauts’ quarters  they  found  some 
of  the  others,  Shontz  who  was  go- 
ing with  Dan,  and  Crider  who  was 
back-up  man,  and  three  or  four 


more  of  the  team.  Others  had  al- 
ready left  for  the  global  tracking 
stations  where  they  would  sweat 
put  the  flight  with  Dan  and 
Shontz.  They  were  all  stamped 
out  of  much  the  same  mold  as 
Dan,  and  that  wasn’t  a bad  one, 
Burnett  thought,  not  bad  at  all. 
Most  of  them  had  visited  in  his 
house.  'Three  of  them  had  even 
read  his  stories  before  they  ever 
met  either  him  or  Dan.  Now,  of 
course,  they  all  had.  It  seemed  to 
delight  them  that  they  had  on  their 
team  a top  boy  whose  father  was  a 
writer  of  science  fiction.  He  had 
no  doubt  that  they  had  many  a pri- 
vate joke  about  that,  but  all  the 
same  they  greeted  him  with  pleas- 
ure, and  he  was  glad  of  them>  be- 
cause he  needed  some  dteaction 
to  forget  the  coldness  that  was  in 
him. 

"Hey!”  they  said.  "Here’s  the 
old  expert  himself.  Hi,  Jim,  how 
goes  it?” 

T came  down,”  he  told  them, 
"to  make  sure  you  were  doing  ev- 
erything according  to  the  way  we 
wrote  it.” 

They  grinned.  "Well,  how  does 
it  look  to  an  old  pro?”  asked  Cri- 
der. 

Burnett  pulled  his  mouth  down 
and  looked  judicial.  "Pretty  good, 
except  for  one  small  detail.” 

‘What’s  that?” 

"The  marfdngs  on  the  rocket. 
You  ought  to  paint  them  up  bright- 
er, good  strong  reds  and  yellows 
so  they’ll  show  up  against  that 


THE  KtO 

dfeep,  blaclE,  vdvety^  star-shot 
^ace.” 

Shonte  said,  ‘T  had  a better 
Idea,  I wanted  the  top  brass  to 
paint  the  rocket  black  velvet  and 
star-shot  so  Them  Out  There, 
couldn’t  see  us  going  by.  But  the 
generals  only  looked  at  us  kind  of 
funny.” 

“Illiterates,”  said  a tall  solemn- 
faced  young  man  named  Martin. 
He  was  one  of  the  three  who  had 
read  Burnett’s  stories.  "Cut  my 
teeth  on  them”  he  had  said,  mak- 
ing Burnett  feel  more  ancient  than 
overjoyed. 

“Right,”  said  Crider.  “I  doubt  if 
they  ever  even  watched  Captain 
Marvel.” 

“That's  the  trouble,”  said  Fisher, 
“with  a lot  of  people  in  Washing- 
ton,” Fisher  was  round-faced  and 
sunburned  and  cheerful,  and  he 
too  had  cut  his  teeth  on  Burnett’s 
stories.  “When  they  were  kids  they 
never  read  anything  but  Captain 
Billy’s  Whiz  Bang,  and  that’s  why 
diey  keep  coming  out  with  ques- 
tions like.  Why  put  a man  on  the 
Moon?“ 

“Oh,  well,”  said  Burnett,  “that’s 
nothing  new.  People  said  that  to 
Columbus.  Fortunately,  there’s  al- 
ways some  idiot  who  won’t  listen 
to  reason.” 

Crider  held  up  his  right  hand. 
"Fdlow  idiots,  I salute  you.” 

Burnett  laughed.  He  felt  better 
now.  Because  they  were  so  relaxed 
and  unworried  he  could  loosen  up 
too. 


“Don’t  get  smart  with  me,”  he 
said.  "I  wrote  the  lot  of  you.  When 
you  were  drooling  in  yoyr  cribs  I 
was  making  you  up  out  of  ink  and 
sweat  and  the  necessity  to  pay  the 
bills.  And  what  did  you  do,  you 
ungrateful  little  bastards?  You  all 
came  true.” 

“What  are  you  working  on 
now?”  asked  Martin.  “You  going 
to  do  that  sequel  to  ‘Child  of  a 
Thousand  Suns’?  That  was  a great 
story.” 

“Depends,”  said  Burnett.  “If 
you’ll  promise  to  keep  the  hell  out 
of  the  Hercules  Cluster  just  long 
enough  for  me  to  get  the  book 
written  . , He  counted  on  his 
fingers.  “Serialization,  hard-cover, 
soft-cover  . . . Three  years  at  a 
minimum.  Can  you  do  that?” 

“For  you,  Jim,”  said  Fisher, 
"we’U  hold  ourselves  back.” 

“Okay,  then.  But  I tell  you,  it 
isn’t  funny.  These  probes  peering 
around  Mars  and  Venus  and  blab- 
bing everything  they  know,  and 
some  smart-assed  scientist  coming 
up  every  day  with  a new  break- 
through in  psionics  or  cryogenics 
or  see-tee  or  FTL  drives  ...  it’s 
getting  tough.  Nowadays  I have 
to  know  what  I’m  talking  about, 
Instead  of  just  elaborating  on  a 
theory  or  making  something  up 
out  of  my  own  head.  And  now  my 
own  kid  going  to  the  Moon  so  he 
can  come  back  and  tell  me  what 
it’s  really  like,  and  there  will  go  z 
dozen  more  stories  I can’t  write.” 

Talking,  just  talking,  but  the 


26 


FANTASY  AND  SCISNCE  FICTION 


taD(  and  the  hearty, . grinning 
young  faces  did  hitn  good  and  dve 
coldness  in  him  was  gone  . . . 

"Have  faith,  Dad,”  said  Dan, 
mi  find  you  something  down  in 
fibte  cavernsa  A dead  city.  Or  at  die 
least  an  abandoned  galactic  out- 
post.** 

"Well,  why  not?”  said  Burnett. 
"Everything  else  has  happened.*’ 

He  grinned  back  at  them.  'Til 
tell  you  one  thing,  science  fiction 
is  a tough  living  but  I’m  gkd  it 
all  came  true  while  I was  around 
to  see  it,  and  to  see  how  the  people 
who  latched  at  such  childish  non- 
SCTise^ook  it.  The  look  of  blank 
shock  on  th^r  little  faces  when 
Sputnik  first  went  up,  and  the 
fovely  horror  that  crept  over  them 
as  they  gradually  began  to  realize 
diat  Out  There  is  a really  big 
fdace  ...” 

He  was  not  just  talking  now,  he 
felt  a throb  of  excitement  and 
pride  that  his  own  flesh  and  blood 
was  a part  of  this  future  that  had 
so  suddenly  become  the  present. 

They  talked  some  more  and 
then  it  was  time  to  go,  and  he  said 
goodbye  to  Dan  as  casually  as 
though  the  boy  was  taking  a shut- 
■ lie  hop  between  Cleveland  and 
Pittsbiirgh,  and  he  went  away. 
Only  once,  when  he  looked  back 
at  the  rocket,  very  distant  now  like 
a white  finger  pointing  skyward, 
did  the  fear  wrench  at  his  guts 
again. 

He  flew  home  that  night  to 
Cartersburg,  in  central  Ohio.  He 


sat  up  very  late  talkiz^  to  his  wife, 
telling  her  about  Dan,  how  he  had 
looked  and  what  he  had  said  and 
how  he,  Jim,  tbou^t  Dan  was 
really  feeling, 

"Happy  as  a ckm  at  high  tide,’* 
he  told  her.  ‘Tou  should  have 
come  with  me,  Sally.  I told  you 
that.” 

"No,’*  she  said.  T didn't  want  to 
go.” 

Her  face  was  as  cahn  and  re- 
laxed as  Dan’s  had  been,  but  there 
was  a note  in  her  voice  that  made 
him  put  his  arms  around  her  and 
kiss  her. 

"Quit  worrying,  honey.  Dan’s 
not  worried,  and  he’s  the  one  that's 
doing  it." 

"That’s  just  it,”  she  ssdd.  "He’s 
doing  it" 

Burnett  had  an  extra  drink  or 
two  to  sleep  on.  Evai  so  he  did 
not  sleep  well.  And  in  the  morn- 
ing there  were  the  reporters. 

Burnett  was  beginning  to  not 
hke  reporters,  -Some  of  them  were 
friendly  guys,  and  some  were  Just 
guys  dinng  a job,  but  there  were 
others  . . . especially  those  who 
thought  it  intriguing  that  a science 
fiction  writer  should  have  fathered 
an  astronaut. 

‘Tell  me,  Mr.  Burnett,  when 
you  first  started  to  write  science 
fiction,  did  you  really  believe  it 
would  all  happen?” 

'That  question’s  a little  sloppy, 
isn't  it?”  said  Burnett.  Tf  you 
mean,  did  I think  space-travel 
would  happen  . . . yes,  I did.” 


27 


THE  PRO 

Tve  been  reading  some  of  your 
early  stories.  Managed  to  get  hold 
of  some  of  the  old  magazines  . . 

“Good  for  you.  Some  of  them 
axe  selling  for  nearly  as  much  as  I 
got  for  the  stories . Go  ahead 

“Well,  Mr.  Burnett,  not  only  in 
your  stories  but  in  almost  all  the 
others,  I was  struck  by  the  faith  in 
space-travel  they  showed.  Tell  me, 
do  you  think  the  science  fiction 
you  chaps  wrote  helped  make 
space-travel  come  true?” 

Burnett  snorted.  “Let’s  be  real- 
istic. The  big  reason  why  rockets 
are  going  out  now,  instead  of  a 
century  from  now,  is  because  two 
great  nations  are  each  afraid  the 
other  will  get  an  advantage.” 

"But  you  feel  that  science  fic- 
tion did  something  to  bring  it 
about,  don't  you?” 

“Well,”-  said  Burnett.  “You 
could  say  that  it  encouraged  unor- 
thodox thinking  and  sort  of  pre- 
pared the  mental  climate  a lltde 
for  what  was  coming.” 

The  reporter  had  finally  made 
his  point  and  seized  triumphantly 
upon  it.  "So  that  one  might  say 
that  the  stories  you  wrote  years 
ago  are  partly  responsible  for  the 
£act  that  your  son  is  going  to  the 
Moon?” 

The  coldness  came  back  into 
Burnett.  He  said  flatly,  "One  might 
say  that  if  one  wanted  some  soppy 
human  interest  angle  to  add  to  the 
coverage  of  the  moonflight,  but 
there’snot  any  truth  in  it.” 

The  reporter  smiled.  "Come 


now,  Mr.  Burnett,  your  stories 
surely  had  some  in^ence  on  Dan 
in  making  his  choice  of  a career.  I 
mean,  having  been  exposed  to 
these  stories  all  his  life,  reading 
them,  listening  to  you  talk  ... 
wouldn’t  all  that  sort  of  urge  him 
into  it?’* 

“It  would  not  and  it  did  not,” 
said  Burnett.  He  opened  the  door. 
"And  now  if  you’ll  excuse  me.  I’ve 
got  a lot  of  work  to  do.” 

When  he  shut  the  door,  he 
locked  it.  Sally  had  gone  off  some- 
where to  avoid  the  whole  thing 
and  the  house  was  quiet.  He 
walked  through  it  to  the  back  gar- 
den and  stood  there  staring  hard 
at  some  red  flowers  and  smoking 
until  he  could  hold  his  hand 
steady  again. 

"Oh,  well,”  he  said  aloud,  “for- 
get it.” 

He  went  back  into  the  house,  to 
his  own  room,  his  workroom — he 
had  never  called  it  a study  because 
he  didn’t  study  in  it,  he  only 
worked — and  shut  the  door  and 
sat  down  in  front  of  his  typewrit- 
er. There  was  a half-written  page 
in  it,  and  six  pages  of  cc^y  beside 
it,  the  groping  and  much  x-ed-out 
unfinished  first  chapter  to  the 
sequel  of  “Child  of  a Thousand 
. Suns”.  He  read  the  last  page,  and 
then  the  page  in  the  typewriter, 
and  he  put  his  hands  on  the  key- 
board. 

A very  long  time  later  he  sighed 
and  be^n  almost  mechanically  to 
type. 


28 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 


Later  stfll  Sally  came  in  and 
found  him  sitting.  He  had  taken 
that  page  out  of  the  typewriter  but 
he  had  not  put  another  one  in,  and 
he  was  just  sitting  there. 

‘‘Troubles?”  asked  Sally. 

“Can’t  seem  to  get  the  thing  go- 
ing, is  all.” 

She  shook  him  gently  by  the 
shoulder.  “Come  and  have  a drink, 
and  then  let’s  get  the  hell  out  of 
this  house  for  a while,” 

She  did  not  often  talk  like  that. 
He  nodded,  getting  up.  “Driye  in 
the  country  mi^t  do  us  good.  And 
maybe  a movie  tonight.”  Anything 
at  all-to  get  our  minds  off  the  fact 
that  tomorrow  morning  is  lift-off  if 
die  weather  is  right.  Already  Dan 
has  slipped  out  of  our  grasp  into 
the  strange  seclusions  of  the  final 
briefing. 

“Did  I urge  him?”  he  said  sud- 
denly. "Did  I,  Sally?  Ever?” 

She  looked  at  him  startled,  and 
then  she  shook  her  head  decisively. 
“No,  Jim,  you  never  did.  He  just 
naturally  had  to  go  and  do  this. 
So  forget  it.” 

Sure.  Forget  it. 

But  Dan  did  get  his  horizons 
stretched  young.  And  who's  to  say 
what  minute  seed  dropped  so  care- 
lessly along  the  way,  a single  word 
perhaps,  written  for  two  cents  os 
one  cent  or  half  a cent,  and  long 
forgotten,  may  by  devious  ways 
have  led  the  boy  to  that  little  steel 
room  atop  a skyrocket? 

You  might  as  well  forget  it,  for 
there’s  nothing  you  can  do. 


They  had  the  drive  in  the  coun- 
try, and  they  ate  something,  and 
they  went  to  the  movie,  and  then 
there  was  nothing  to  do  but  go 
home  and  go  to  bed.  Sally  went  to 
bed,  anyway.  He  did  not  know  if 
she  slept.  He  himself  stayed  up, 
sitting  in  his  workroom  alone  with 
his  typewriter  and  a bottle. 

All  around  him  on  the  walls 
were  the  framed  originals  of  cover 
paintings  and  interior  illustrations 
from  his  stories.  There  was  one 
from  "Stardream”,  written  long 
before  Dan  was  born,  showing  a 
beautiful  white  rocket  in  space, 
with  Mars  in  the  background.  Un- 
derneath the  pictures  were  rows  of 
shelves  filled  with  the  end  results 
of  more  than  thirty  years  of  writ- 
ing, marching  battalions  of  yel- 
lowing pulps  a little  frayed  at  the 
corners,  paperbacks,  the  respecta-^ 
ble  hardcovers  with  their  shiny 
jackets.  This  room  was  himself,  an 
outer  carapace  compounded  from 
his  needs  and  his  dreams,  the  full 
times  when  his  mind  flowed  ideas 
like  a spring  river  and  the  times  qf 
drought  when  nothing  came  at  all, 
and  always  the  work  which  he 
loved  and  without  which  he  would 
cease  to  be  Jim  Burnett. 

He  looked  at  the  empty  type- 
writer and  the  pages  beside  it  and 
he  thought  that  if  he  was  going  to 
sit  up  all  night,  he  ought  to  go  -on 
with  the  story.  What  was  it  diat 
Henry  had  said,  years  ago.  . . . 
“A  professional  is  a writer  who  can 
tell  a story  when  he  doesn't  feel 


THE  PRO 

nice  telling  a story."  That  was  true, 
but  even  for  an  old  pro,  there  were 
times.  . . . 

At  some  time  during  the  dark 
hours  Burnett  fell  asleep  on  the 
couch  and  dreamed  that  he  was 
standing  outside  the  closed  hatch 
©f  the  capsule,  pounding  on  it  and 
calling  Dan’s  name.  He  couldn’t 
get  it  open,  and  he  walked  angrily 
around  until  he  could  look  in 
through  the  port  and  see  Dan  ly- 
ing there  in  the  recoil  chair,  a 
suited  dummy  with  a glittering 
plastic  head,  his  gloved  hands 
flicking  at  rows  of  toggles  and  col- 
ored levers  with  a cool  unhurried 
efficiency  that  was  unpleasantly 
robOt-like.  “Dan,"  he  shouted. 
"Dan,  let  me  in,  you  can't  go  off 
without  me.”  Inside  the  plastic 
helmet  he  saw  Dan’s  head  turn 
though  his  hands  never 
topped  from  arranging  the  toggles 
and  levers.  He  saw  Dan's  face 
smiling  at  him,  a fond  but  some- 
how detached  smile,  and  he  saw 
the  head  shake  just  a shade  impa- 
dlently.  And  he  heard  Dan  an- 
swer, "I’m  sorry,  Dad,  I can’t  stop 
now,  Tve  got  a deadline.”  A shield 
or  curtain,  or  perhaps  a cloud  of 
vapor  from  the  liquid  hydrogen 
moved  across  the  port  and  he 
cmildn’t  see  Dan  any  more,  and 
when  he  hammered  on  the  hatch 
again  he  was  unable  to  strike  it 
hard  enou^  to  make  the  slightest 
sound. 

Without  warning,  then,  he  was 
a long  distance  away  and  the 


79 

rocket  was  going  up,  and  he  was 
still  shouting,  “Dan,  Dan,  let  me 
in!”  His  voice  was  swallowed  up 
in  thunder.  He  began  to  cry  with 
rage  and  frustration  and  the  sound 
of  his  tears  was  like  rain  falling. 

He  woke  to  find  that  it  was 
morning  and  a small  thunderstorm 
was  moving  through,  one  of  those 
little  indecisive  ones  that  change 
nothing.  He  got  up  rustily,  won- 
dering what  the  hell  that  dream 
was  all  about,  and  then  looked  at 
his  watch.  A little  less  than  two 
hours  to  launch. 

He  had  one  quick  one  to  untie 
the  knots  in  his  stomach  and  then 
put  the  bottle  away.  Whatever 
happened,  he  would  watch  it  so- 
ber. 

Damned  queer  dream,  though. 
He  hadn’t  been  worried  at  all,  only 
angry. 

Sally  was  already  up  and  had 
the  coffee  on.  There  were  dark 
smudges  under  her  eyes  and  the 
age-lines  seemed  to  stand  out 
clearer  this  morning  than  they 
usually  did,  not  that  Sally  was  old 
but  she  wasn’t  twenty  any  more 
either,  and  this  morning  it  showed. 

“Cheer  up,”  he  said,  kissing  her. 
“They’ve  done  this  before,  you 
know.  Like  eight  times,  and  they 
haven't  lost  anybody  yet.”  Immedi- 
ately, superstitiously,  be  was  sorry 
he  had  said  it.  He  began  to  laugh 
rather  too  loudly.  "If  I know  Dan,” 
he  said,  “if  I know  that  kid,  he’s 
Kitting  in  that  capsule  cooler  than 
a polar  bear’s  nose  in  January,  the 


30 

only  In  country  Artjai’t 

He  shut  up  too  abruptly,  and 
Ae  jdwne  rang.  Tke  phone.  They 
had  long  ago  shut  off  the  regular 
one,  nlencing  the  impossible  nuin- 
her  of  relatives  and  friends  and 
wellwidiers  and  reporters  and 
l^in  pests,  and  this  one  that  rang 
was  a private  thing  between  them 
said  the  Cape.  He  picked  it  up  and 
listened,  watching  Sally  standing 
frozen  in  mid-Hoor  with  a cup  in 
her  hands,  and  then  he  said. 
Thank  you,  and  put  it  down. 

“That  was  Major  Quidley.  Ev- 
orything’s  Go  ^cept  the  weather. 
Btit  they  think  the  cloud-cover  will 
pass.  I^’s  fine.  He  sends  his  love." 

Sally  nodded. 

“We’ll  know  right  away  if  they 
call  off  the  shot.” 

“I  hope  they  don’t,”  Sally  said 
jSatly.  “I  don’t  think  I could  start 
this  all  over  again.” 

They  took  their  coffee  and  went 
into  the  Uving  room  and  turned  on 
Ae  television  and  there  it  was, 
alone  and  splendid  in  the  midst  of 
the  deserted  field,  the  white  flanks 
gleaming  softly,  touched  around 
with  little  nervous  spurts  of  vapor, 
and  high  above,  so  high^  so  sm^I 
at(^  that  looming  shaft,  the  cap- 
sule thrust  impatiently  toward  tlU 
clouds. 

And  Dan  was  in  there,  suited, 
helmeted,  locked  away  now  from 
man  and  parent  earth,  waiting, 
watching  the  sky  and  listening  for 
the  word  that  would  send  him  rid- 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTIQK 

Ing  the  thund^,  bridling  ihe 
lightning  with  sure  hands,  out  into 
the  still  black  immensity  where 
the  stars.  . . . 

Oh,  Christ.  Word  stuff,  papa 
stuff,  and  that’s  neither  words,  nor 
paper  in  that  goddam  little  coffin* 
that’s  my  son,  my  kid,  my  litde 
dirty  gap-toothed  boy  with  the 
tom  britches  and  the  scabs  on  h^ 
knees,  and  he  waai’t  ever  intend- 
ed to  ride  thunder  and  bridle 
lightning,  no  man  is.  Pulp  heroes 
were  all  made  of  wood  and  they 
could  do  it,  but  Dan’s  human  and 
soft  and  easily  broken.  He  hash^ 
any  business  there,  no  man  has. 

And  yet  in  that  fool  dream  I 
was  mad  because  I couldn’t  go  too. 

T-minus  forty  and  holding! 
Perhaps  they’ll  call  it  off.  ... 

Announcers’  faces,  saying  tiffs 
and  that,  stalling,  filling  up  time^ 
making  ponderous  statements.  Pa- 
sonages  making  pionderous  state- 
ments. Faces  of  people,  mobs  ol 
people  with  kids  and  lunches  aiMi 
Ixittles  of  pop  and  deck  chairs  and 
field  glasses  and  tight  capri  pants 
and  crazy  hats  that  wanted  to 
blow  off  in  the  wind,  aH  watching. 

“They  make  roe  sick  at  my  stom- 
ach,” he  snarled.  “What  the  h^ 
do  they  think  this  is,  a picnic?” 

‘They’re  all  with  us,  Jim. 
They’re  pulling  for  him.  And  for 
Shontz.” 

Burnett  subsided,  ashamed. 
“Okay,”  he  grumbled,  “but  do  th^ 
have  to  drink  orange  soda?” 

The  announcer  puAed  hif 


31 


tHK  PRO 

i^adphone  closer  to  his  ear  and 
likened.  “The  cxnmt  is  on  again, 
bdies  and  gentlemen,  T-minus 
thirty-nine  now  and  counting.  AH 
systems  are  Go,  the  cloud-cover  is 
beginning  to  break  up,  and  there 
comes  the  sun  . . 

The  announcer  vanished  and 
the  rocket  was  there  again.  The 
sun  struck  hard  on  the  white 
flanks,  the  sharp  uplifted  nose. 

Dan  would  feel  that  striking  of 
the  sun. 

T-minus  thirty  and  counting. 

I wish  I could  write  this  instead 
of  watching  it,  Burnett  thought. 
Tve  written  it  a hundred,  two 
hundred,  times.  The  ship  rising  up 
on  the  hammering  flames,  rising 
steady,  rising  strong,  a white  ar- 
row shafting  on  a tail  of  hre,  and 
you  know  when  you  write  it  that 
it’s  going  to  do  just  that  because 
you  say  so,  and  plunge  on  into  die 
&ee  wide  darkne^  of  space  and 
go  where  you  damned  well  tell  her 
to  without  any  trouble. 

, T-minus  twenty  and  counting. 

I wish,  thought  Burnett,  1 wish. 

He  did  not  know  what  he 
wished.  He  sat  and  stared  at  the 
screen,  and  was  only  dimly  aware 
when  Sally  got  up  from  beside  him 
and  left  the  room. 

Ten.  Nine.  And  that’s  science 
ficticm  too,  that  countdown  going 
backwards,  somebody  did  it  in  a 
movie  or  a story  decades  ago  be- 
cause he  thought  it  would  be  a nice 
touch.  And  here  they  are  doing  it. 


With  my  kid. 

Three,  two,  one,  ignition,  the 
white  smoke  bursting  in  mush- 
rooming clouds  from  beneath  Hie 
rocket,  but  nothing  happening, 
nothing  at  all  happening.  But  it 
is,  the  whole  thing’s  starting  to 
rise,  only  why  does  it  seem  so 
much  slower  than  the  others  I 
watched,  what’s  wroi^,  what  the 
hell  is  wrong  . . . 

Nothing.  Nothing's  wrong,  yet. 
It’s  still  going  up,  and  maybe  it 
only  seems  slower  than  the  other 
times.  But  where  are  all  the  emo- 
tions I was  sure  1 was  going  to 
feel,  after  writing  it  so  many 
times?  Why  do  I just  sit  here  with 
my  eyes  bugging  and  the  palms  (rf 
my  hands  sweating,  shaking  a lit- 
tle, not  very  much  but  a little  . . . 

Through  the  static  roar  and  the 
chatter,  Dan’s  voice  cutting  in, 
calm  and  quick.  All  systems  Go,  it 
looks  good,  how  does  it  look  down 
there?  Good,  that’s  good  . . . 

Burnett  felt  an  unreasonable 
flash  of  pure  resentment.  How  can 
he  be  so  calm  about  it  when  we’re 
sweating  our  hearts  out  down 
here  ? Doesn ’t  he  give  a damn  ? 

“Separation  okay  . . . second- 
stage  ignition  okay  ...  all  okay 
. . the  level  voice  went  on . 

And  Burnett  suddenly  knew 
the  answer  to  his  resentful  won- 
der. He’s  calm  because  he’s  doing 
the  job  he’s  trained  for.  Dan’s  the 
pro,  not  me.  All  we  writers  who 
daydreamed  and  babbled  and 
wrote  about  space,  we  were  just 


32 

amateurs^  but  now  the  real  pros 
have  come,  the  tanned,  placid 
young  men  who  don't  babble  about 
space  but  who  go  up  and  take  hold 
of  it  . . . 

And  tiie  white  arrow  went  on 
upward,  and  the  voices  talked 
about  it,  and  it  was  out  of  sight. 

Sally  came  back  into  the  room. 

“It  was  a perfect  shot,”  he  said. 
And  added,  for  no  reason  he 
could  think  of,  “He’s  gone.” 

Sally  down  in  a chair,  not 
^ying  anydiing,  and  Burnett 
thought.  What  kind  of  dialogue  is 
diat  for  a man  who's  just  seen  his 
stm  shot  into  space? 

The  voices  went  on,  but  the  ten- 
sion was  going  out  of  them  now,  it 
looks  good,  it  looks  very  good,  it  is 
good,  they're  on  their  way  . . . 

Burnett  reached  out  and 
Slapped  off  the  television . As 
though  it  bad  been  waiting  for  the 
silence,  the  phone  rang  again. 

“You  take  it,  honey,”  he  said, 
getting  up.  “Everything’s  okay  for 
now,  at  least.  ...  1 might  as 
well  get  back  to  work.” 

Sally  gave  him  a smile,  the  kind 
of  a smile  a wife  gives  her  husband 
udien  she  sees  all  through  his  pre- 
tenses but  wants  to  tell  him,  It’s 
all  right,  go  on  pretending,  it’s  all 
ri^t  with  me. 

Butiiett  went  into  his  workroom 
and  closed  the  door.  He  took  up 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

the  bottle  in  his  hands  and  sat 
down  in  his  padded  chair  in  frotit 
of  the  typewriter  with  the  empty 
roller  and  the  neat  stack  of  clean 
yellow  sheets  on  one  side  and  the 
thin  pile  of  manuscript  cm  the 
other.  He  looked  at  it,  and  he 
turned  and  looked  at  the  shelves 
where  thirty  years  of  magazines 
and  books  and  dreams  and  love 
and  sweat  and  black  disappoint- 
ment were  lined  up  stiff  and  stiU 
like  paper  corpses. 

"'Your  stories  surely  had  some 
influence  on  Dan  in  making  the 
choice  of  his  career?" 

“No,”  said  Burnett  loudly,  and 
drank. 

"Wouldn't  all  that  sort  of  wrge 
him  into  H . . . your  son  . . , 
goingto  the  Moon  ...” 

He  put  the  cork  in  the  bottle 
and  set  it  aside.  He  stood  up  and 
walked  to  the  shelves  and  stood  by 
them,  looking,  picking  out  one 
thing  and  then  another,  the  bright 
covers  with  the  spaceships  and  the 
men  and  girls  in  their  suits  and 
helmets,  and  the  painted  stars  and 
planets. 

He  put  them  back  neatly  into 
their  places.  His  shoulders  sagged 
a little,  and  then  he  beat  his  fist 
softly  against  the  Selves  of  silent 
paper.  “■ 

“Damn  you,”  he  whispered. 
‘Damn  you,  damn  you  ...” 


THE  SCIENCE  SPRINGBOARD 


Stomata  are  tiny  pores  that 
exist  in  plant  tissue.  They  occur 
mostly  in  the  leaves,  hut  they  also 
occur  in  the  epidermis  of  young 
stems,  flowers,  and  fruit.  Each  sto- 
mate  may  range  in  size  from  8 to 
40  microns  depending  on  the  plant 
species.  Since  a micron,  is  a thou- 
sandth of  a millimeter,  a square 
centimeter  of  leaf  surface  will  con- 
tain from  a few  thousand  to  a hun- 
dred thousand  stomata. 

Each  stomate  lies  between  two 
cells  known  as  guard  cells.  The 
double  cell  walls  of  guard  cells  vary 
in  thickness  and  elasticity  from  one 
part  of  the  cell  to  another.  When 
the  guard  cell  walls  swell,  they 
move  away  from  each  other  and 
thus  open  the  stomate.  When  the 
guard  cell  walls  are  limp,  the 
stomate  is  closed.  Such  factors  as 
light,  temperature,  and  internal 
water  supply  of  the  leaf  cause  the 
guard  cells  to  swell  or  relax.  Day- 
light normally  opens  the  stomata 
unless  low  temperatures  or  low 
internal  water  supply  overrides  the 
effects  of  light  and  keeps  them 
closed.  In  some  of  the  cactuses  the 
stomata  open  only  at  ni^t  to  con- 
serve water. 


STOMATA 

by  Theodore  L.  Thomas 

Carbon  dioxide  is  taken  up  by 
the  plant  through  the  open  stomata, 
and  through  them  oxygen  is  dis- 
charged. In  the  mechanism  called 
transpiration,  water  taken  up  by 
the  roots  is  discharged  to  the  air 
through  stomata.  Scientists  have 
recently  discovered  that  the  open 
stomata  also  serve  to  cool  the  leaf 
during  transpiration. 

It  is  clear  that  the  stomata  are 
something  like  the  pores  in  a hu- 
man skin,  but  no  one  has  taken  the 
one  for  a model  of  the  other.  A 
tinkering  with  the  chromosomes  in 
human  skin  cells  might  produce 
some  wonderful  results.  We  could 
all  breath  through  the  skin.  We 
have  a fine,  large  surface  exposed  to 
the  good  air,  and  transpiration 
would  keep  us  cool  the  way  per- 
spiration does  now.  With  a hit  of 
additional  chromosomal  tinkering, 
we  might  be  able  to  extract  oxygen 
from  water  my  means  of  our  pores. 
Back  to  the  oceans  we  would  go, 
each  man  to  his  own  temperature 
choice  and  his  own  surroundings. 
And  if  some  nourishment  could 
also  be  absorbed  through  the  skin, 
why,  none  of  us  would  have  to 
work  for  a living. 


33 


From  masterly  Master  Damon  Knight,  now  flourishing  on  what 
Henry  Clay  called  “the  generous  sotT  of  Kentucky,  comes  this  smaU 
trUmgularly-shaped  bijou  of  a tale  about  fickle  Robert,  charming 
GiseUe,andYana  , . . whose  talents  were  perhaps  more  revealing 
than  revealed. 


MAID  TO  MEASURE 

hy  Damon  Knight 


Cote  d’Azur  sunlight,  fil- 
tered  by  the  jalousies,  made  a gold- 
en Himnpss  in  the  room.  On  the 
green  brocade  chaise  lay  a slender 
blonde  in  tennis  costume,  swinging 
a racquet  in  her  hand.  Each  time 
she  swung  it,  it  went  thump  on  the 
floor. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  do  that,” 
said  the  bearded  young  man  irrita- 
bly. “I’ve  spoiled  this  damn  post- 
card twice,”  He  threw  a colorful  bit 
of  cardboard  at  the  wastebasket, 
and  drew  another  toward  him 
across  the  writing  desk. 

'T  wish  you  wouldn’t  make  cow's 
eyes  at  aging  brunettes  in  bars,” 
said  the  girl.  There  was  a gleam  of 
spite  in  her  big  blue  eyes. 

“Agingl”  said  the  young  man  au- 
tomatically, pausing  in  his  work. 

“She  must  have  been  thirty  if 
she  was  a day,”  said  the  girl. 
Thump  went  the  tennis  racquet. 

“Umm,”  said  the  young  man, 
looking  up. 


“Umm,  hell!’'  said  the  girl.  Her 
expression  had  grown  definitely  un- 
pkasant.  “I’ve  got  half  a mind — 

“What?”  asked  the  young  maa 
apprehensively. 

“Oh,  nothing.”  After  a pause,  die 
said,  “Mother  would  have  knowa 
what  to  do  with  you.  She  was  a 
witch.” 

The  young  man  clucked  hds 
tongue  disapprovingly,  without 
looking  up.  “Shouldn’t  talk  abotd: 
your  old  mother  that  way,”  he  said. 

“She  was  a witch/’  the  girl  said. 
“She  could  turn  herself  into  a wolf, 
a tiger,  a ton  of  bricks,  or  anything 
die  liked.” 

“Sure,  she  could,”  said  the  young 
man,  signing  his  postcard.  “There 
we  are.”  He  put  the  card  aside,  lit 
a cigarette,  and  glanced  rather 
nervously  at  his  watch . “All  kidding 
aside,  Yana — we’ve  had  a pretty 
good  time — ” 

“But  all  things  come  to  an  end?” 
the  girl  asked  in  a dangerous  voice. 


34 


MAID  TO  MEASURE 


35 


‘WeVe  both  grownups?  We  ought 
to  be  realistic?  Is  that  it?”  She  stood 
up  and  went  to  the  closet. 

"Well — ” said  the  young  man 
uncomfortably.  His  expression 
brightened.  “What  are  you  doing?” 

The  girl  pulled  out  a pigskin 
suitcase  and  opened  it  with  unnec- 
essary vehemence.  She  rummaged 
in  one  of  the  pockets,  drew  out  a 
worn  chamois  bag.  "Looking  for 
something,”  she  said. 

“Oh,”  said  the  young  man,  dis- 
appointed. He  watched  while  the 
girl  opened  the  drawstrings,  took 
out  a small  object  wrapped  in  a 
dirty  red  cloth  and  tied  with  string. 
He  glanced  at  his  watch  again; 
when  he  looked  up,  the  girl  had  a 
small,  oddly  shaped  bottle  in  her 
hand. 

“What’s  that?” 

"Something  my  mother  left 
me,”  the  girl  said.  Her  fingernails 
gritted  unpleasantly  on  the  glass  as 
she  scraped  the  wax  off  and  re- 
moved the  stopper.  She  gave  him  a 
narrow  look.  “So  you  won’t  change 
your  mind?” 


"Now,  Yana—” 

‘Then  here’s  luck.”  She  put  the 
bottle  to  her  lips,  tilted  her  head 
hack  and  swallowed. 

"Now  then,”  she  said,  lowering 
the  empty  bottle,  “let's  see  . . .” 
She  flexed  one  hand  experimental- 
ly, looking  at  her  long  nails. 

The  young  man  was  inspecting 
his  watch.  “Almost  three  o’clock,” 
he  muttered.  “Yana,  didn’t  you  say 
you  were  going  to  the  hairdresser’s 
this  afternoon?” 

“I  changed  my  mind.”  She 
looked  at  him  thoughtfully.  “Why 
—are  you  expecting  anyone?” 

“Oh,  no,”  the  young  man  said 
hastily.  He  stood  up  energetically. 
“Tell  you  what,  Yana — no  hard 
feelings — let’s  go  for  a swim,” 

“I  see,”  said  the  girl.  “Tell  me, 
what  about  tonight — no  plans?  No 
one  coming  over?” 

“No,  not  a thing.” 

“So,  we’ll  he  all  alone — just  the 
two  of  us.”  She  smiled,,showing  her 
pointed  eyeteeth.  "That  will  give 
me  plenty  of  time  to  decide.  What 


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36 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 


shall  I be,  darling — your  great  big 
stripy  pussycat  , « . ^3ur  dinner 
l^idcet  . . . or  your  faithful,  hun- 
gry dog?” 

The  young  man,  who  was  peel- 
ing his  shirt  off  over  his  head,  did 
hot  hear.  His  voice  came  indistinct- 
ly. "Well,  if  we're  going  for  that 
swim,  let’s  get  moving.” 

"All  right,”  die  girl  said.  "Wait 
a minute,  and  I’ll  change  into  a 
bikmi.” 

Emerging  from  the  shirt,  the 
^ung  man  said,  "Glad  you  decided 
t«i)t  to  be — ” He  Iwjked  around,  but 
the  girl  was  not  in  the  room.  “Yana, 
Yana?  That’s  funny.”  He  crossed 
die  mom,  fenced  into  the  bed- 
room, then  the  bath.  They  were 
empty. 

A light  tapping  came  at  the 
French  doors  as  Ae  young  man 
turned.  They  open«l,  and  a pretty 
dark-haired  young  woman  put  her 
head  in.  "Robert?  I am  not  intrud- 
ing?” 

"Gisellei”  cried  the  ^ung  man, 


smiling  widi  pleasure.  ^IVo,  c»me 
on  in — you're  right  on  time.  I was 
-just  about  to  go  for  a swim.” 

The  young  woman  advanced 
with  a charming  smiley  her  figure, 
in  a low-cut  blue  sun  dress,  also 
charming. 

"Oh,  it’s  too  bad,”  she  said}  *1 
have  no  suit.” 

"Here’s  one,”  said  the  young  mad 
cheerfully,  picking  up  two  candy- 
striped  bits  of  material  from  the 
chaise.  "Try  that  one  for  size,” 

"But  doesn’t  it  belong  to  your— • 
little  ftiend?  Won’t  she  mind?” 

"No,  no — don’t  give  her  another 
thou^t.” 

As  they  were  leaving,  the  young 
man  glanced  with  an  odd  expres- 
sion at  the  striped  bikini,  which 
fitted  the  dark  girl  admirably. 

"What  it  it,  anything  wrong?”  , 

"Just  thought  of  somediing  Yana 
said  before  she  left,  . . . Noj  it 
couldn’t  be.  Well,  come  on!” 

Arm  in  arm,  lauding,  they  went 
out  into  the  sunlight. 


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Address 


BOOKS 


THE  ANCIENT  ENGINEERS,  L.  SpragUe 
de  Camp,  Doubleday,  $4.95 

THie  cover  squib  describes  this  as 
“a  fascinating  account  of  the  ad- 
vance of  technology  from  the  earli- 
est times  to  the  Renaissance” — and 
for  once  I am  in  full  agreement.  L. 
Sprague  de  Camp,  that  man  of 
many  marvels — traveler,  historian, 
linguist,  novelist,  scientist — is  also 
a founder  of  the  American  So- 
ciety for  the  History  of  Technology 
(I  hope  I’ve  got  that  right).  He 
gives  us  here  408  fascinating  pages 
of  quick  and  lively  prose  Cwith 
many  fascinating  illustrations)  on 
a subject  of  infinite  importance.  If 
you  are  one  of  the  many  who  think, 
though  not  deeply,  that  invention 
came  in  only  with  the  industrial 
revolution,  and  that  the  ancients 
devised  nothing  but  wheels,  walls, 
catapults,  chariots,  and  maybe  here 
and  there  a galley,  go  thou  to  this 
book  and  learn  better.  You’ll  en- 
joy it,  too. 

ORPHANS  OF  THE  SKY,  Robert  A. 
Heinlein,  Putnam,  $3.50 

Herewith  another  We-don’t-usu- 


ally.  We  don’t  usually  review  re- 
prints of  twenty-three-year-old 
magazine  serials  which  also  ap- 
peared thirteen  years  ago  in  paper- 
back. However,  we  do  when  the 
item  in  question  is  a modem  classic. 
I well  recall  this  one’s  appearance 
in  Astounding  Cnow  Analog,  chil- 
dren), with  the  famous  cover  of 
the  two-headed  mutant,  Joe-Jim. 
The  story  then  bore  the  titles  UNI- 
VERSE and  COMMON  SENSE, 
and  a closer  look  at  the  credits  in- 
forms me  that  only  UNIVERSE 
was  reprinted  in  paperback. 

I knew  a man  who  confessed  to 
me  ruefully,  that  he  was  unable  to 
read  Aristotle  because  the  thougjit 
kept  occurring  to  him,  “But  the 
medieval  philosophers  said  the 
same  things!”  Of  course  they  did; 
they  had  read  them  in  Aristotle. 
And  unless  one  is  lucky  enough  to 
come  on  ORPHANS  OF  THE  SKY 
as  a newcomer  to  SF,  the  impres- 
sion is  going  to  occur  and  re-occur, 
“But  X and  Y and  Z said  the  same 
things!”  Of  course  they  did;  they 
read  them  in  Heinlein.  Such  is 
likely  to  be  the  fate  of  any  pioneer 
whose  ideas  are  so  new  that  he  in- 
spires a host  of  others — others,  who 


38 

in  turn,  inspire  others  yet.  Is  a read? 
i»g-  of  ORPHANS,  thenj  likely  to 
pro^  no  more  than  a venture 
into  nostalgia  dr  a schol^tic  exer- 
cise of  the  Ph.D.-ing  sort?  Answer: 
No.  It's  still  a good  story.  And  how 
many  of  tiiose  whom  Heinlein  in- 
fluenced have  equalled  him?  Not 
many. 

bi  brief,  this  is  the  story  of  Hugh 
Hoyland,  born  cm  and  born  to  the 
Ship.  The  Ship  is  who  knows  how 
and  who  knows  how  big.  Big 
enough  to  be  a universe,  old  enough 
for  its  origins  to  have  been  forgot- 
ten. Not  quite  forgotten,  but  as 
good  as.  The  old  braks  are  inter- 
preted as  alle^ries  by  the  faithful 
and  derided  as  mvihs  by  the  ration- 
alists. The  possibility  that  anything 
exists  outside  the  Ship  Cor  that  the 
Ship  has  an  outside)  is  nc^  merely 
denied,  it  is  unheard  of.  Mean- 
while, beyond  the  "civilized”  areas 
of  the  Ship  live  the  hated  and 
hunted  Muties — vrho  hate  and 
hunt  ri^t  back — a scroungy, 
dopey  lot,  mostly.  Except  for  Joe- 
Jim,  SF’s  best  proof  of  the  adage 
riiat  two  heads  are  better  than  one. 
Joe-Jim  knows  that  the  Ship  is  a 
Ship,  only,  but  can’t  do  anything 
with  his  knowledge.  And  Hugh  is 
the  Cat  first,  unwitting)  catalyst 
which  brings  about  the  prophesied 
reaction. 

There  are  at  least  four  Basic  Tra- 
ditional SF  Elements  in  this  last 
paragraph  alone,  and  so  far  as  1 
know,  Heinlein  originated  them  oil 
right  in  this  book  CHe  may  also 


PANTAST  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

here  have  originated  the  dreary 
practice  of  telling  money  in  "cred- 
its”— though  I hate  to  think  it  of 
him.)  He  goes  right  on  doing  this 
sort  of  thing,  drat  the  man,  too.  It 
is  fascinating  to  compare  his  writ- 
faig  trf  what  I shall  term  his  Late 
Early  Period  with  his  current  work. 
In  terms,  not  of  his  work  as  a 
whole,  but  of  individual  books.  I'm 
afraid  that  we  cannot  always  say 
of  him  as  of  Job,  that  the  Lord  has 
blessed  his  latter  end  more  than  his 
loginning.  Considering  the  magni- 
tude and  magnificence  of  OR- 
PHANS’ concept,  J am  a little  dis- 
appomted  in  the  limitations  of  its 
conclusion.  Even  Aristotle  nods. 

A STAR  CALLED  THE  SUN,  CeOTge 

Gamow,  Viking,  $5.75 

This  book  is  not  for  those  who 
complain  that  Dr.  Asimov’s  articfes 
have  too  many  numbers  in  them, 
hi,  Ike.  It  is  also  full  of  stuff  about 
paralaxes  and  carbon  cycles,  varia- 
bility curves,  and  hierarchies  of 
eddies.  Unlike  the  works  of  Profes- 
sor Willy  Ley,  it  is  unrefreshed 
with  anecdotes.  But  even  though  it 
lacks  the  human  touch  it  con- 
tains a lot  of  good,  solid  informa- 
tion. Author  is  professor  of  physics 
at  the  University  of  Colorado. 

COME  BACK,  DR.  CALIGARI,  Donald 
Barthelme;  Little,  Brown,  $4.95 

This  volume  leaves  me  at  my 
usual  loss  for  words.  It  belongs  to 


BOOKS 


39 


the  New  Wave,  or  maybe  New  Rip- 
ple, or  perhaps  New  Drip,  school 
of  short  story  writing.  Never  mind 
looking  for  a plot.  You’ll  be  lucky 
if  you  find  a beginning  or  a middle 
or  an  end.  There  are  elements  rem- 
iniscent of  the  old  Dos  Fassos, 
Joyce,  Da-Da-ism,  collages,  mari- 
juana, Dali,  and,  well,  an  Interior 
Monologue  going  on  in  some  nei- 
ther safe  nor  sanitary  snake-pit.  I 
have  often  quoted  from  the  caption 
of  the  famous  Punch  cartoon  about 
the  Curate’s  Egg.  May  I now  tell  it 
in  full?  Victorian  curate  was  break- 
fasting with  the  bishop.  Says  the 
Bishop,  “I’m  afraid  that’s  a bad  egg 
you  have  there,  Mr.  Jones.”  Says 
the  Curate,  “Oh,  no,  my  lord,  I 
assure  you,  parts  of  it  are  very 
nice.”  Well,  parts  of  this  semi-inde- 
scribable book  are  very  nice.  Parts 
of  them  are  damned  nice.  In  fact, 
we  may  just  reprint  either  THE  PI- 
ANO PLAYER  or  THE  JOKER’S 
GREATEST  TRIUMPH  (indig- 
nant letter  from  East  Weewaw, 
Wisconsin,  I huy  your  magazine  to 
he  entertained  not  heivildered") . Al- 
though there  are  some  great  lines 
in  some  of  the  other  stories,  too. 
Milton  Glaser’s  jacket  design  is 
very  appropriate. 

BOCKETS  AND  SPACECRAFT  OF  THE 

woiRUD,  Michael  Chester,  Norton, 

$3.95 

This  book  is  evidently  aimed 


principally  at  “young  readers”,  but 
it  contains  much  which  is  informa- 
tive for  readers  of  any  age  who  are 
neither  scientists  nor  technicians. 
The  fact  that  I found  it  so  myself, 
whom  our  Science  Editor  cheerful- 
ly terms  a “scientific  illiterate”, 
ought  not  to  condemn  the  volume 
out  of  hand.  There  are  many  of  us 
who  cannot  meet  Dr.  Asimov’s 
exacting  standards.  The  book’s 
eleven  chapters  include  those  on 
Satellites,  Men  in  Orbit,  Moon  and 
Planet  Probes,  Solid  [fuel]  Rockets, 
Liquid  [fuel]  Rockets,  and  Guid- 
ance Systems;  as  well  as  many 
beautifully  clear  illustrations  and 
charts.  “As  a result  [of  the  TIROS 
weather  satellites  alone],”  the  au- 
thor says,  already  “we  can  predict 
the  movements  of  dangerous 
storms,  the  drift  of  ice  floes,  and 
the  effects  of  weather  on  our  farm 
crops  . . . our  exploration  of  the 
solar  system  will  provide  informa- 
tion of  tremendous  importance  to 
the  growth  of  industry,  medical  sci- 
ence, and  agriculture.” 

MAROONED,  Martin  Caidin,  E,  P. 
Dutton,  $4.95 

After  spending  about  one 
month  in  trying  to  read  this  volume 
I must  now  confess  that  I have  been 
unable  to  complete  it.  Possibly  this 
is  because  it  is  a novel  of  the  sort  in 
which  the  protagonist  is  not  a hu- 
man being  but  a salmon,  an  otter,  a 
fire,  a storm,  or  other  rerae  natura. 
The  protagonist  here  is  not  astro- 


40 

naut  Pruett  at  all,  really,  but  our 
entire  national  space  program; 
Pruett  is  not  really  a human  being 
but  the  persoryfication  of  the  events 
in  which  the  author  has  him  parti- 
cipate. There  is  a certain  moving 
{^ture  quality  about  it,  but  no  mov- 
ing picture  would  ever  be  as  grimly 
thorou^  as  this  one  seems  to  be. 
“Now  get  in  there,  boy,  and  fight  r 
“We’ll  show  theml”  “But  don’t 
those  fools  in  Congress  realize — 
“Meanwhile,  back  in  the  rocket 
ship  . . — These  subtitles  rise 

before  my  eyes.  If  you  want  to  fol- 
low this  program  inch  by  liquid 
oxygen  fueled  inch  from  past 
through  present  into  what  I am 
sure  must  be  an  imp^cably  logically 
extrapolated  future,  to  find  out  why 
Pruett’s  retro-jets  won’t  fire,  and  if 
he  is  rescued  before  all  his  air  gets 
used  up,  why,  then,  godspeed  to 
you,  and  let  me  know  how  it  comes 
out,  some  of  yez.  The  curious  thing 
is  that,  while  I cannot  read  the 
blasted  book,  I nevertheless  retreat 
from  it  with  respect.  Can  it  be  that 
Mr.  Caidin  has  almost  succeeded  in 
telling  me  more  about  space  travel 
&an  I care  to  know? 

TBisTES  TROPiQUES,  Claude  L4vi* 
^auss,  Adieneum,  $2.45,  Ulus. 

“People  generally  think  of  travel 
in  terms  of  displacement  in  space, 
but  a long  journey  exists  simultan- 
eously in  space,  in  time,  and  in  the 
social  hierarchy,”  writes  this  dis- 
tinguished French  savant,  the  sub- 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

title  of  whose  book,  an  anthropo- 
logical study  of  primitive' societies  in 
Brazil,  merely  states  the  subject  in 
minimal  terms.  I address  myself  to 
it  in  maximal  ones.  Levi-Strauss 
traces  the  science  of  anthropology 
to  what  he  considers  its  origins  in 
the  confrontation  of  post-CoIiim- 
bian  European  philosophers  vyith 
the  coastal  Indians  of  Brazil;  I am 
a very  long  way  from  being  the  first 
to  point  out  the  importance  which 
that  science  must  have  in  the  con- 
frontation of  intelligent  life  else- 
where in  the  universe — some  first- 
rate  SF  has  been  written  by  anthro- 
pologists such  as  Chad  Oliver.  (In 
fact,  there  is  even  a stfnal  note  in 
this  line  about  the  Bororo  Indians: 
The  aije  is  a mythical  monster  of 
the  aquatic  deep,  repellent,  evU- 
smelling,  and  affectionate:  it  ap- 
pears before  the  budding  [medicine^ 
man]  and  forces  him  to  endure  Us 
caresses  . . . ! Do  you  suppose  any 
Bororo  found  their  way  to  legend- 
haunted  Innsmouth?  Or,  for  that 
matter,  any  aije?')  Even  the  old 
shibboleth  of  black  and  white  may 
not  hold  fast,  for  what  shall  we  ex- 
pect of  extra-terrestrials  when  some 
Indians  consider  red  and  yellow  as 
more-or-less  the  same  qolor,  and 
blue  as  sometimes  a shade  of  black 
and  sometimes  of  green? 

There  is  a fascinating  and  pro- 
vocative glimpse  of  “the  paleo-Eski- 
moes  whose  culture  is  evocative  of 
archaic  China  and  the  Scythians" 
— and  an  absolutely  startling  para- 
graph: We  now  know  that  com- 


BOOKS 


41 


munications  between  . . . Alaska 
and  Siberia  . . . went  on  without 
interruption.  Towards  the  begin- 
ning of  the  Christian  era,  iron  tools 
were  in  use  in  Alaska,  though  the 
natives  there  knew  nothing  of 
metallurgy;  similar  types  of  pottery 
may  he  found  from  the  region  of 
the  Great  Lakes  ...  to  Central  Si- 
beria, as  can  also  the  same  legends, 
the  same  rites,  the  same  myths.  At 
a time  when  the  West  lived  shut  an 
upon  itself,  it  would  appear  that  all 
the  northern  peoples,  from  Scandi- 
navia right  across  to  Labrador,  by 
way  of  Siberia  and  Canada,  were  iri 
close  and  constant  contact  with  one 
another  [!]  If  the  Celts  took  certain 
of  their  legends  from  that  sub- 
Arctic  civilization,  of  which  we 
know  almost  nothing,  we  can  un- 
derstand why  ft  is  that  the  Grad 
cycle  is  closer  to  the  Indian  myths 
which  flourished  in  the  forests  of 
North  America  than  to  any  other 
mythological  system.  Nor  is  it,  in 
iM  probability,  by  chance  that  the 
Lapps  are  still  building  conical  tents 
identical  with  those  of  the  North 
American  Indians." 

And,  later,  ''Probably,  therefore. 


these  three  regions — Indonesia,  the 
American  north-east,  and  Scandi- 
navia— formed  the  trigonometrical 
points  of  the  pre-Columbian  history 
of  the  New  World."  And,  "Every- 
thing points  . . . to  the  hypothesis 
that,  while  the  Atlantic  remained 
in  total  silence,  a humming  as  of 
innumerable  bees  could  he  heard 
all  around  the  periphery  of  the 
Pacific." 

There  are  other  startling  notions 
of  M.  L6vi-Strauss — for  example, 
that  “the  primary  function  of  writ- 
ing . . . has  been  the  enslavement  of 
other  human  beings.”  I should  like 
Mr.  John  Campbell’s  opinion  on 
this  subject.  One  or  two  other 
sparks — “Rousseau,  of  all  the 
philosophes,  came  nearest  to  being 
an  anthropologist;  "and  that  all 
man  has  done  since  the  neolithic 
age  Cduring  which  he  "put  himself 
beyond  the  reach  of  cold  and  hun- 
ger [and]  he  acquired  leisure  to 
think")  is  to  transfer  to  famine  and 
war  the  equilibrium  previously 
maintained  by  plague. 

Sloppy  but  intriguing  cover  de- 
sign by  Joseph  Low;  translation  by 
John  Russell. 

— A VRAM  Davidson 


It  is  always  too  long  between  R.  Btetnor  stories,  and  the  lapses 
bettveen  R.  Bretnor  stories  about  Papa  Schimmelhorn  can  be 
described  only  as  inordinate.  It  was  in  the  Winter-Spring  1950 
issue  of  F ftr  SF  that  “that  lusty,  and,  we  fear,  somewhat  bawdy 
octogenarian**  (as  Anthony  Boucher  called  him)  caused  the  gnurrs 
to  come  from  the  voodvork  out  by  playing  on  his  doodle-pipe. 
What  the  Swiss  genius  is  up  to  right  now,  we  dare  hardly  guess. 
However,  by  great  good  fortune  we  are  able  to  bring  to  our  readers 
a past  chapter  in  the  rich  and  fascinating  life  of  Papa  Schimmeb 
horn  which  might  otherwise  have  escaped  their  attention.  Mr. 
Bretnot^s  merry  and  ingenious  prose  herewith  introduces  us  to  the 
Fledermaus  family,  a cuckoo  and  collateral  branch  of  the  Schim- 
melhoms,  and  to  its  most  otifstanding  member.  . . 


LITTLE  ANTON 

by  if.  Bretnor 


The  day  before  Little  An- 
ton  was  due  to  arrive  at  Ellis  Is- 
land the  Board  of  Directors  of  the 
Luedesing  Time  and  Instrument 
Corporation  of  New  Haven  met  in 
special  session  to  determine  the 
fate  of  his  great-uncle,  Papa 
Schimmelhorn. 

Through  gold-rimmed  specta- 
cles, old  Heinrich  Luede- 
sing  glared  at  his  son  Woodrow, 
at  the  Board,  and  at  Captain 
Perseus  Otter,  U.S.N.  “I  haff  said 
vun  thousand  times,”  he  puffed, 
"und  now  I say  again — nefer  vill  I 


Bre  Papa  Schimmelhorn.  He  iss  a 
chenius!” 

“Now  now.  Dad,”  soothed 
Woodrow  Luedesing,  forcing  his 
features  into  their  second-best 
Dale  Carnegie  smile,  “it’s  just 
that  things  have  changed.  Re- 
member, we  aren’t  simply  the  old 
Luedesing  cuckoo  clock  factory 
any  more.  We’ve  converted.  We’ve 
retooled.  New  capita!  has  come 
into  the  firm.  We  have  a contract 
— the  contract — to  make  those 
super-secret  Wilen  scanners  ‘ for 
the  Navy.  It’s  stuff  that  takes 


© i952,  by  Henry  Holt  & Company,  Inc. 
42 


LmU  ANTOK 

iii^-^weced  scientific  know- 
how. It  can't  be  handled  by  a 
cuckoo  clock  technology.’* 

Obstinately.  old  Heinrich 
shook  his  head. 

“Well,  Dad.”  The  smile,  slip- 
ping out  of  gear,  was  instantly  re- 
placed by  prof^r  filial  sympathy 
and  sorrow.  . . We  didn’t 
want  to  have  to  force  the  issue. 
But  . . Woodrow  shrugged, 

. . you  leave  us  no  alterna- 
tive. After  the  Captain  gives  us 
the  Navy  point  of  view,  we’ll  have 
to  call  a vote.” 

Captain  Perseus  Otter  rose, 
jutting  sharply  forward  as  he  did 
so.  This  accentuated  his  amazing 
likeness  to  Lord  Nelson — or  rath- 
er to  a figurehead  of  Nelson 
carved  by  some  sculptor  of  strong- 
ly anti-British  tendencies.  It  was 
an  unfortunate  singularity,  cruel- 
ly noticed  by  a long  succession  of 
superior  officers  and  by  all  the 
ladies  who  might  have  married 
him.  It  had  turned  him  into  a bit- 
ter man. 

Captain  Otter  fixed  old  Hein- 
rich with  the  sort  of  gaze  usually 
reserved  for  derelicts  which  re- 
fuse to  sink.  “Mr.  Luedesing,”  he 
snapped,  “ei^t  weeks  ago,  I ap- 
proved your  promotion  of  this 
man  Schimmelhorn  from  foreman 
- to  superintendent  of  production. 
In  my  opinion,  he  was  not  quali- 
fied for  the  position.  He  is  eighty 
years  of  age.  He  left  school  at 
eleven.  His  IQ  is  that  of  a high- 
grade  moron.  His  moral  character 


43 

is  reprehensible.  However,  I de- 
ferred to  your  judgment.  Here, 
sir,  are  Ibe  results.” 

He  removed  two  gadgets  from 
his  brief  case.  “As  you  are  aware, 
the  critical  element  in  the  Wilen 
scanner — the  part  which  enables 
us  to  detect  every  ship  and  air- 
craft, friend  or  foe,  within  a 
thousand  miles — is  Assembly  M. 
It  is  so  secret  that  none  us 
knows  what  it  contains,  so  secret 
that  it  must  be  manufactured  en- 
tirely by  sealed  automatic  mech- 
anisms. These  machines  were 
installed  by  Schimmelhorn.  He 
alone  has  been  told  how  they 
function.  All  we  know,”  the  Cap- 
tain’s voice  quivered  with  right- 
eous wrath,  “is  that  Assembly  M 
is  suppk}sed  to  come  out  in  on& 
piece  instead  of  two — and  that 
there  should  be  no  clockwork  in 

nr 

The  table  buzzed.  The  gadgets 
passed  from  hand  to  hand — a 
seamless  silver  ©void  with  six 
slender  porcelain  legs,  and  a 
toadstool-shaped  vacuum  tube 
full  of  odd  bric-a-brac,  in  the 
(^nter  of  which  several  brass 
gears  were  clearly  visible. 

“I  shall  summarize,”  declared 
Captain  Otter.  "One,  the  gears  do 
not  belong  within  the  tube.  Two, 
the  tube  belongs  inside  the  unit, 
where  it  is  now  impossible  to  put 
it.  Three,  we  shall  have  to  bring 
Wilen  him^lf  down  from  M.I.T. 
to  remedy  the  situation.  And  four 
— As  ffiough  an  unattired  mer- 


44 


maid  had  cut  across  his  bows,  he 
Hushed.  " — since  Thursday,  Mr. 
Luedesing,  there  have  been  twen- 
ty-eight complaints  from  female 
employees-  Schimmelhorn  is  con- 
tinually molesting  them.” 

“Papa  Schimmelhorn  does  nodt 
molest  vomen,”  fumed  old  Hein- 
rich. “He  chust  makes  passes.” 

Captain  Otter  folded  his  arms. 
“I  shall  state  the  Navy's  attitude 
simply  and  directly.  Mr.  Luedes- 
ing,  Schimtnelkorn  must  got" 

Immediately  afterward,  by  a 
vote  of  eight  to  one,  the  members 
of  the  Board  decided  to  retire  Pa- 
pa Schimmelhorn,  complete  with 
gold  watch,  pension,  and  signed 
testimonial-  Then,  at  Woodrow 
Luedesing’s  suggestion,  they  sent 
for  him  to  teil  him  the  good  news. 

Papa  Schimmelhorn  was  twice 
as  big  as  Heinrich  Luedesing.  He 
was  attired  gloriously  in  hound's- 
tooth-check  trousers,  green  plaid 
^rts  coat,  and  devastating  or- 
an^  shirt — and  on  his  ruddy 
cheek,  midway  between  his  left 
eyebrow  and  his  huge  white 
beard,  there  was  a smear  of  lip- 
stick. 

He  seated  himself  casually  on 
a corner  of  the  table,  and  put  an 
arm  around  old  Heinrich’s  shoul- 
dets.  “Alvays,  Heinrich,  vith 
such  nincompoops  you  shpend 
youi  time.  Iss  bedter  you  come 
vith  Papa  Schimmelhorn,  to  see 
dot  new  blonde  in  der  shipping 
office.  I tell  you — he  pointed  at 


PANTAST  AND  SCIENCE  PICTTON 

the  Captain  and  favored  the  Di- 
rectors with  an  enormoirs  Wink, 
“ — she  would  make  efen  dot  sailor 
come  to  life!” 

Captain  Perseus  Otter  fc^d 
slightly,  like  something  starting 
to  go  off.  And  Woodrow  Luedes- 
ing,  trying  to  assume  a friendly 
but  executive  expression,  stepped 
into  the  breach. 

“We've  been  discussing  you, 
Mr.  Schimmelhorn,”  he  purred. 
“We  have  been  concerned  about 
you — your  advanced  age,  the 
strain  of  adjusting  yourself  to  the 
swift  pace  of  modem  industry,  the 
impact  of  new  problems  too  c<mi- 
plex  for  your  simple  skills-  It  is 
sad  but  true  that  sooner  or  later 
the  torch  of  progress  must  be 
passed  on  by  the  failing  hands  of 
those  who  have  so  bravely  carried 
it.  The  Luedesing  Time  and  In- 
strument Corporation,  Mr. 
Schimmelhcam,  wants  your  few 
remaining  years  to  be  happy 
ones.  As  General  Manager,  I — ” 

There  was  a cheerful  bellow 
from  Papa  Schimmelhorn.  “Hein- 
rich, such  nonzense  Voodrow 
talks!  I tell  you  vot  he  needs,”  he 
raised  a ham-like,  and  by  no 
means  failing,  hand,  “vun  goot 
lesson  on  der  backside.  Dot  iss 
enough!” 

Woodrow  Luedesing,  paling 
slightly,  scurried  to  shelter  in 
Captain  Otter's  lee.  Several  direc- 
tors quickly  pushed  chairs  be- 
tween themselves  and  Papa 
Schimmelhorn. 


45 


. urtLE.  AifircHsr 

^Nein,  Pa]»,  nein.^  A tear 
flashed  on  old  Heinrich's  thick 
mustache.  "It  iss  now  too  late.  You 
do  nodt  vork  here  any  morel  You 
haff  been  retired,  vith  a pension, 
und  a gold  vatch,  und  maybe  a 
diploma.” 

"At  my  recommendation,"  put 
in  Captain  Perseus  Otter  loftily. 

''Ach,  zo?”  Papa  Schimmeihorn 
didn’t  seem  the  least  bit  stricken. 
"Heiniich,  now  ve  undershtand. 
It  iss  because  of  Voodrow,  who  iss 
ashamed  of  cuckoo  clocks.  It  iss 
alzo — ” he  looked  the  Captain  up 
and  down,  " — because  of  him. 
He  iss  chealous  because  he  can- 
nodt  a girl  like  oder  sailors!” 

Two  of  the  directors  snickered, 
and  Captain  Otter  began  to  hzz 
again.  But  old  Heinrich  was  not 
comforted. 

“I  haff  told  them.  Papa,  that 
vithoudt  you  der  vorks  break 
down.  1 haff  told  them  how  you 
b^n  a chanitor  at  der  Geneva 
Institute  of  der  Higher  Physics, 
vhere  you  listen  to  der  Herr  Pro- 
fessors und  become  a chenius. 
But  der  Captain  says  der  dingus  iss 
all  wrong  ..." 

Chuckling,  Papa  Schimmel- 
hom  turned  his  back  on  the  direc- 
toK.  ‘Tou  listen,  Heinrich.  I haff 
mn  improfement  made.  From 
diese  dunderheads  I keep  it  zecret. 
But,  at  der  Institute,  three  veeks  I 
miss  because  I meet  a vidow  vith 
red  hair,  zo,”  he  tapped  his  skull. 
"Something  iss  nodt  in  here,  und 
der  inzide  of  der  dingus  iss  shtill 


oudt.  Don’dt  vorry,  Heinrich,  I 
vill  fix.  I vill  see  my  friend  Albert, 
in  New  Chersey.  He  vas  a ^mart 
boy  in  Schvitzerland — almost, 
like  me,  a chenius.  Right  after  I 
bring  Lidtle  Anton  I vill  see  him.” 

From  his  pocket  he  took  a tint- 
ed photograph,  showing  a plump, 
slightly  cross-eyed  infant  peering 
knowingly  at  a buxom  nurse. 
"Here  iss  Lidtle  Anton,"  be  ex- 
claimed proudly.  "Eighteen 
pounds  vhen  he  vas  h(wnl  Und 
now  they  are  exhorting  him  from 
Schvitzerland  to  me  und  Mama, 
so  he  grows  up  to  be  a fine  man, 
und  nodt  like  Voodrow.” 

He  rose,  bright  blue  eyes  twin- 
kling at  the  Board.  "Don’dt  you  be 
angry  vith  them,  Heinrich.  Soon 
they  make  a big  mess — und  dien 
they  beg  me  to  come  back,  und 
everything  iss  fixed.  Und  then,"  he 
slapped  his  mighty  chest,  "oh,  ho- 
ho-hol  Maybe,  if  he  is  goot,  I show 
dot  sailor  how  to  catch  a ^11” 

When  Papa  Schimmeihorn  ap- 
peared at  Ellis  Island  and  asked 
for  little  Anton  Fledermaus,  the 
authorities  concerned  immediate- 
ly abandoned  a boatload  of  assort- 
ed immigrants  to  expedite  his  mis- 
sion personally. 

He  noticed  nothing  unusual 
about  this.  Waiting,  he  flirted 
with  a dark  girl  from  Marrakech 
and  congratulated  himself  on  es- 
caping beyond  the  reach  of  Mama 
Schimmelhorn’s  steely  eye  and 
stiff  black  umbrella. 


46 

Largely  oii  the  strength  of  Little 
Anton's  photograph,  he  had 
equipped  himself  with  a mechan- 
ical turtle,  a gaudy  lollipop,  and 
a wort  involving  a character 
named  Willie  Wabhit.  Therefore 
he  paid  no  heed  when  he  saw  two 
uniformed  attendants  gingerly 
urging  forward  an  overgrown 
cherub  who  had  suddenly  erupted 
into  the  most  revolting  stage  of 
adolescence.  This  youth  wore 
knickers  and  a jacket  three  sizes 
too  tight  for  him,  and  carried  no 
higgage  except  a toothbrush  in  his 
breast  pocket.  The  attendants  led 
him  up  to  Papa  Schimmelhorn, 
Murted,  “He’s  all  yours,”  and  hast- 
ily withdrew. 

Taking  off  his  cap  respectfully, 
tiie  youth  addressed  Papa  Schim- 
melhorn as  “dear  great-uncle.” 
Then,  in  a voice  alternating  be- 
tween a tortured  treble  and  a bull- 
frog bass,  he  made  a little  speech 
in  German,  conveying  the  best 
wishes  of  numerous  relatives  and 
promising  that  he  would  be  a good 
boy  and  do  what  he  was  told. 

"Lidtle  Anton!”  Papa  Schim- 
melhorn released  the  girl  from 
Marrakech.  He  embraced  the 
youth  exuberantly.  He  held  him  at 
arm’s  length  for  a pleased  inspec- 
tion. “Lidtle  Anton,  how  you 
groocl” 

Little  Anton  retreated  out  of 
reach.  “Boy-oh-boy!”  he  said.  "Am 
I glad  that’s  over.” 

"But — but  you  shpeak  Eng- 
lish?” 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

“Natch,”  growled  Little  Antim. 
"I  see  the  gangster  pitchers^  That 
Dutch  stuff  I gave  you  was  for 
effect.” 

"Oh;  ho-ho-ho!  To  think  I. 
bring  a lollipop  und  a toy  tur- 
tle!” Papa  Schimmelhorn  was  a>h- 
vulsed.  “Der  goot  choke  iss  on 
me!” 

Little  Anton  peered  at  the  girl. 
For  a moment,  his  eyes  cross^. 
"Pop,”  he  snickered,  “it 
woulda  been  if  I hadn’t 
along.  Well,  my  stuffs  due.  l^l^t 
— so  kiss  her  good-by  and  let's 
take  in  a burleycue.” 

These  evidences ' of  precocity 
delighted  Papa  Schimmeltiorn. 
He  pinched  Miss  Marrakech,  who 
simpered  prettily  in  Arabic.  He 
took  Little  Anton  fondly  by  the 
arm, 

"Und  now,”  he  said,  as  they 
took  leave  of  Ellis  Island,  “ve  go 
to  see  my  goot  friend  Albert  in 
NewiUhersey.  Dot  must  come  first,  - 
before  der  burleycue.  Und  on  der 
vay  I tell  you  all  aboudt  Amer- 
ica— ” 

At  once,  he  told . the  story  of 
Cheorge  Vashington  und  der 
cherry  tree — and  this  led  him, . 
naturally,  into  the  subject  of  his 
own  career.  By  the  time  they 
reached  Penn  Station — where 
they  paused  to  reclaim  a worn 
carpetbag  and  a large  shoe  box 
from  the  checkroom — Little  An- 
ton had  been  made  acquainted 
with  the  private  lives  of  several 
festive  ladies  of  Berne,  New  Ha- 


UTTLS  ANTON 


yen,  and  points  in.  between.  By 
the  fime  they  reached  Jersey,  he 
had  been  briefed  on  the  necessity 
for  a united  male  front  against 
Mama  SchimmeJhom's  domestic 
tyranny.  And,  before  their  train 
had  been  ten  minutes  under  way, 
he  had  received'  technical  infor- 
mation on  the  Wilen  scanner,  the 
bare,  uncensored  thought  of 
which  would  have  given  Captain 
Perseus  Otter  a conniption  fit. 

He  heard  all  this  with  half  an 
ear.  Occasionally,  he  rumbled  an 
"uh-huh”  or  squeaked  out  a “no 
kiddin’?"  Once,  looking  at  his 
great-uncle  in  open  admiration, 
^ exclaimed,  “Yuk-yuk!  When  I 
to  your  age.  Pop,  I wanna  be 
an^old  goat  just  like  you.”  But  he 
spent  most  of  his  time  staring  at 
fellow  passengers,  usually  femi- 
nine ones,  letting  his  eyes  cross, 
and  making  such  pithy  comments 
as  "wcK>-woo!”  Or  “phooey.” 

Finally,  thou^.  Papa'  Schim- 
melhorn  tapped  the  shoe  box  rest- 
ing on  his  knees,  and  said,  “Zo, 
Lidtle  Anton,  dot  iss  vhy  I bring 
vun  dingus  only — because  it  iss 
zo  zecret.  It  vill  do  eferything  dot 
I haff  told  aboudt,  aizo  anoder 
trick  vhich  iss  a big  surbrise.” 

Little  Anton's  eyes  widened. 
Focusing  on  the  shoe  box,  they 
crossed  slightly.  “Yipe!”  he  re- 
marked. “You  got  it  right  here 
with  ycHi,  huh?”  Then,  with  evi- 
dent pleasure,  he  jerked  his  thumb 
over  his  left  shoulder.  “Hey,  I 
betcha  that's  why  that’  little  bas- 


47 

tard  in  the  corner’s  been  tafiing 
us!”  he  cried.'  bgtcha  he's  a spy.’* 

Papa  Schimmelhom  was  not 
just  a genius!  He  was  a genius 
with  savoir  ft^ire.  Turning  calm- 
ly, he  squinted  at  the  undersized, 
sallow  individual  tiiree  seats  be- 
hind them,  instantly  he  was 
amused.  "Dumkopfl”  he  guffawed. 
"Chust  because  he  follows,  it  does 
nodt  mean  der  lidtle  bastard  iss  a 
shpy.  Haff  you  nodt  heard  abont 
der  FBI?  Dot’s  vot  he  iss.  It  i^ 
security.” 

“Nuts  to  you,  Pop,'*  retorted 
Little  Anton  loudly.  “I  seen  G- 
men  in  pitchers.  They  don’t  look 
like  what  you  catch  in  rat  traps.” 

“ffo-hof"  Papa  Schimmelhom 
slapped  his  thij^;  his  merriment 
resounded  through  tiie  car.  “Der 
FBI  iss  defer,  Lidtle  Anton.  Dot 
iss  a disguisel” 

By  now,  all  eyes  were  on  them, 
and  comments  were  being  freely 
made  on  every  hand.  This  seemed 
to  embarrass  the  little  man.  For  a 
few  seconds  he  wiggled  in  his 
seat.  Then,  pulling  his  pork-pie 
hat  down  over  his  ears,  he  scuttled 
out  and  vanished. 

After  that,  the  tumult  gradually 
subsided,  and  the  other  passen- 
gers, losing  interest,  went  back  to 
their  newspapers  and  naps. 

Papa  Schimmelhom  patted.  Lit- 
tle Anton  On  the  head.  “You  are  a 
foolish  boy,”  he  told  him.  “Vhen 
you  are  older  iss  time  maybe  to 
vorry  aboudt  shpies:  Iss  bedter 
now  you  leaf  it  all  to  me.” 


48 

“Fooey,”  muttered  Little  An- 
ton. "I  guess  you  think  you’re  the 
only  genius  in  the  family.  Well, 
Pop,  don’t  say  I didn’t  tell  you.” 
And  he  withdrew  into  himself,  to 
stare  at  his  feet  and  pick  moodily 
at  an  occa^onal  pimple. 

Papa  Schimmelhorn  did  not 
chide  him  for  his  rudeness.  Lean- 
ing his  elbows  on  the  seat  ahead, 
he  started  to  read  the  copy  of 
Newsweek  which  its  stout,  spec- 
tacled occupant  was  holding.  For 
several  minutes,  lips  moving 
slowly,  he  scanned  the  pages 
while  the  magazine's  owner 
feowned  and  fidgeted. 

Suddenly,  just  as  the  man  was 
about  to  turn  a page,  Papa  Schim- 
meihorn  reached  out  and  clutched 
his  arm.  "Vait!  Donnerwetter,  dot 
iss  Albert!”  His  free  hand  pointed 
at  a picture  of  a kindly  old  soul 
b^ly  in  need  of  a haircut.  “Hold 
shtill,  I vant  to  r^ad  ...” 

The  man  squirmed  and  made 
futile  angry  noises — and  Papa 
Schimmelhorn  plowed  through  a 
paragraph  which  stated  that  Pro- 
fessor Albert  Einstein  had  gone  to 
Harvard  to  deliver  a series  of  lec- 
tures on  his  new  gravitational  the- 
ory. 

“Alvays  I know  dot  he  iss 
shmart!”  Letting  go.  Papa  Schim- 
melhorn shook  his  head  wonder- 
ingly.  ‘,‘Now  they  haff  made  him 
a professor — imachine  it!” 

As  his  er^while  victim,  splut- 
tering, removed  across  the  aisle, 
he  sat  back  sharply.  “Ach,  Lidtle 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

Anton,  it  iss  a choke  on  us.  For 
two  veeks,  Albert  iss  avay!  Ve 
must  get  ofi  at  der  next  station, 
und  take  der  train  inztead  to 
Massachuzetts.  At  vunce  I shpeak 
to  der  conductor.” 

He  expressed  this  resolve  firm- 
ly, and  he  would  certainly  have 
put  it  into  execution — if  the  bru- 
nette had  not  come  in. 

She  was  a very  well-turned 
brunette,  a bit  like  those  whd 
used  to  undulate  through  the  ear- 
lier efforts  of  Cecil  B.  DeMille, 
but  with  modem  upholstery.  She 
wore  something  spectacularly 
black,  dangled  long  scarlet  ear- 
rings, and  carried  a neat  over- 
night bag.  As  she  came  slithering 
up  to  them,  her  slanting  eyes 
seemed  to  search  each  face  long- 
ingly. Then  they  found  Papa 
Schimmelhorn’s  and  rested  there. 
Passing  by,  she  gave  him  a linger- 
ing, torrid  smile. 

Papa  Schimmelhorn  took  a 
deep  breath  and  looked  at  Little 
Anton.  Little  Anton  uncrossed  his 
eyes,  drooled,  and  said,  'Y«w- 
yum."  Momentarily,  at  least,  rap- 
port was  re-established. 

The  brunette  took  the  seat  once 
occupied  by  the  small,  sallow 
man.  Her  perfume  drifted  for- 
ward to  them  powerfully. 

It  made  the  hairs  in  Papa 
Schimmelhom’s  big  ears  Quiver. 
"Lidtle  Anton,”  he  said  dedsiFely. 
"I  haff  ideas  , . ^ 

"Me  too!”  croaked  Little  Anton. 
",  . . und  vim  idea  iss  dot  she 


limi  ANTON 


49 


iss  going  to  Atlantic  City,  for  der 
beaudty  condests.  Und  anoder  iss 
dot  Albert  iss  very  busy  vith  his 
grafity.  Maybe  ve  Uiould  nodt 
bother  him  in  Massachuzetts.  It 
vould  be  rude.  In  two  veeks  he 
coines  back.  Iss  plenty  time.  Ve, 
you  und  I,  take  maybe  a vacation 
by  der  sea.  Maybe  ve  go  to  this  At- 
lantic City,  vhere  are  such  inder- 
- esting  people.  You  can  learn  all 
aboudt  America  . . 

The  Lorelei  Hotel  was  neither 
the  finest  nor  the  most  fashionable 
in  Atlantic  City.  Its  days  of  glory 
had  departed  with  the  bloomer 
bathing  suit,  and  now  it  catered 
Co  retired  clergymen,  lieutenant 
colonels’  widows,  and  people  in 
•’  modest  circumstances  with  four  or 
more  children. 

Papa  Schimmelhorn  and  Little 
Anton,  falling  into  none  of  these 
' categories,  were  welcomed  coldly 
by  the  management.  A grim  Nan- 
tucket clerk  inspected  them,  de- 
manded payment  in  advance,  and 
had  them  whisked  so  quickly 
through  the  lobby’s  purple  plush 
and  potted  palms  that  they  failed 
. to  see  the  brunette  and  the  small 
man  in  the  pork -pie  hat  register- 
ing in  their  wake. 

I'  Papa  Schimmelhorn  surveyed 
1.  their  room  with  satisfaction.  Ap- 
..pjjopriating  the  bed  nearest  the 
; window,  he  unpacked  his  carpet- 
bag,  taking  from  it  a gay  aloha 
1 sbirtira  pair  of  sandals,  a suit  of 
. floweied  puce  pajamas  which  he 


suspend^  from  the  gilded  gas- 
and-electric  chandelier,  and  a 
cuckoo  clock.  This  last,  with  the 
aid  of  a large  nail  and  a shoe  heel, 
he  hung  upon  the  wall. 

"Chust  like  at  home,”  he  si^ied 
— and  waited  for  Little  Anton  to 
say  something  complimentary. 

But  there  was  no  reply.  In- 
stead, behind  him,  he  heard  a 
sharp,  metallic  click.  He  tumied 
— and  gasped. 

Kneeling  on  the  floor,  Little 
Anton  was  unlocking  the  first  of 
three  enormous  suitcases. 

“Vhere — ?”  exclaimed  Papa 
Schimmelhorn.  “Vhere  did  you 
get  those?” 

“Switzerland,”  said  Little  An- 
ton placidly. 

“But — Gott  im  Himmel-— 

How?” 

"I  wanna  be  a smuggler.  I’m 
practicing.  When  I’m  real  good. 
I’ll  sneak  Chinks  in  over  the  bor- 
der. But  this’ll  do  for  now.  You’re 
a genius.  Pop,  you  can  figger  the 
technique  out  in  no  time.” 

He  opened  the  first  suitcase. 
“Watches,”  he  stated  smugly. 
“Two  hunerd  of  ’em,  duty  free,” 
He  opened  up  the  second.  “French 
post  cards,”  he  announced.  “They 
oughta  go  like  hot  cakes.” 

Papa  Schimmelhorn  took  one 
quick  look.  “No  vunder  they  ex- 
horted you  from  Schvitzerland,” 
he  muttered,  turning  crimson, 

“My  clothes  and  stuff,”  finished 
Little  Anton,  indicating  the  third 
suitcase.  “They’ll  keep  till  later.” 


50 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 


But  Papa  Schimmelhom  said 
nothing  more.  He  sat  down  on  his 
bed,  and,  while  Little  Anton  bus- 
ily took  inventory,  he  ransacked 
his  mind  for  scraps  of  informa- 
tk)n  about  his  grand-nephew. 
Once  in  a while,  he  recalled, 
Mitzi  Fledermaus  had  mentioned 
her  small  son  in  letters  to  Mama. 
Little  Anton  had  been  an  imagi- 
native child,  dreaming  funny 
dreams,  claiming  to  have  play- 
mates whom  he  alone  could  see, 
disappearing  for  hours  on  end 
mysteriously.  And  hadn’t  there 
been  some  odd  business  about 
shoplifting,  which  nobody  could 
prove? 

Papa  Schimmelhorn’s  brain 
whirred  and  clicked,  considering 
-all  these  matters  together  with 
such  other  data  as  the  lad’s  uncan- 
ny mastery  of  colloquial  English. 
He  came  to  a conclusion. 

"Mein  Lidtle  Anton,”  he  began 
sweetly.  "I  haff  been  thinking. 
Vhere  iss  vun  chenius  in  der  fam- 
ily iss  maybe  more  . . 

Little  Anton  was  stuffing  pack- 
ages of  post  cards  in  his  pockets. 
“Now  you're  catching  on,”  he 
grunted  without  pausing. 

. . und  right  avay,  vhen  • 
you  arrife,  I say,  ‘Ou^Lidtle  An- 
ton iss  zo  shmart,  a child  protigy. 
Someday  he  iss  a chenius  chust 
like  me.’  ” 

*‘Pop,”  said  Little  Anton,  “you 
don't  know  the  half  of  it.” 

Papa  Schimmelhom’s  voice  be- 
came deeply  serious.  "Ve  chenius- 


es  must  shtick  together,  Lidtle  An- 
ton. I vill  teach  you  eferything  I ' 
know,  und  you — ” he  rubbed  his 
hands,  “ — vill  show  me  how  iss 
vorked  der  lidtle  suidcase  trick.” 

“Yuy-yukl”  crowed  Little  An- 
ton. “You  sure  got  a corny  line, 
Pop.”  He  moved  toward  the  door, 

“Vait,  Lidtle  Anton!”  cried  Pa^ 
pa  Schimmelhom.  “Vhere  are  you 
going?  Iss  nine  o’clock.” 

"I’m  gonna  peddle  feelthy 
peectures,”  replied  Little  Anton, 
patting  his  bulging  pockets.  “This 
looks  like  just  the  place,  and  I 
need  lettuce.  And  don’t  you  worry 
none  about  the  cops.  They  can’t 
touch  us  wholesalers.”  He  turned 
the  knob.  For  a fraction  of  a sec- 
ond he  crossed  his  eyes.  “Wanna 
know  something  about  that  mouse 
aboard  the  train,  Pop?”  he  asked. 
"She’s  got  a cuckoo  tattoed  on  her 
tummy  r 

Abruptly  the  door  closed  be- 
hind him,  and  he  was  gone< — 
leaving  his  great-uncle  with  an 
imagination  nicely  titillated,  and 
an  even  tougher  problem  on  his 
mind. 

“Voukl  you  belief  it?”  marveled 
Papa  Schimmelhom.  “A  cuckoo  on 
der  tummy.  How  beaudtiful!” 

Like  a caged  tom-tiger,  he  start- 
ed pacing  up  and  down.  How  did 
the  boy  know?  And  how  could  that 
know-how  be  pried  out  of  him? 
There — there  had  been  something 
— something  in  one  of  Mitzi 
Fledermaus’  letters,  aboiit  how  lit- 
tle Anton,  then  four,  had 


LITTLE  ANTON 


51 


been  repToved  for  prattling  of  a 
corner  around  which  no  one  else 
could  see.  Perhaps — 

Papa  Schimmelhom  stopped 
pacing.  Chadging  to  sandals  and 
aloha  shirt,  he  stretched  his  huge 
frame  on  the  bed  in  order  to  at- 
tack the  problem  comfortably. 
Presently,  the  cuckoo  on  the  wall 
popped  in  and  out  and  sang  ten 
times,  marking  the  hour  . . . 

And,  almost  at  once,  there 
came  a tiny  knocking  on  the  door. 

"yQ-ho?”  boomed  Papa  Schim- 
melhorn.  “Lidtie  Anton,  you  are 
back  zo  soon?” 

The  door  opened.  But  Little 
Anton  did  not  enter.  Instead, 
there  stood  the  brunette.  She  was 
clad  in  cocktail  pajamas  of  black 
and  red,  vaguely  Chinese  in  mo- 
tif, fitting  her  like  a snake’s  new 
skin. 

Her  eyes  went  wide  as  she  saw 
Papa  Schimmelhom.  Her  hand 
flew  to  her  lips.  "OkT  she  cried 
out.  “1 — I must  have  the  wrong 
room!” 

Papa  Schimmelhorn  bounded 
to  his  feet.  His  beard  almost  swept 
the  floor  as  he  bowed.  He  assured 
her  gallantly  that,  from  his  point 
of  view,  quite  the  reverse  was 
true. 

Suddenly  she  smiled.  "Why,  1 
know  you.  The  conductor  told  me 
you  were  going  to  Princeton. 
You’re  the  professor  who  was  on 
the  train.” 

Papa  Schimmelhom  hung  his 
head  modestly:  "1  am  nodt  a pro- 


fessor. 1 am  chust  a chenius.  1 
haff  nodt  gone  to  Princeton  be- 
cause mein  friend  Albert  Einstein 
iss  avay.” 

"A — a genius!  Ooohr  Somehow 
the  door  seemed  to  close  itself  be- 
hind her.  "Then  you  know  all 
about  science,  don’t  you?  I mean 
about  geometry  and  physics  and 
— well,  everything?"  She  clasped 
her  hands  together.  "Please,  may 
I come  and  talk  to  you  sometime, 
when — when  you  aren’t  busy  in- 
venting your  new  theories?” 

Her  voice  was  deep,  disturbing 
— rather  like  Edith  Piaf  with 
whipped  cream.  It  set  the  follicles 
of  Papa  Schimmelhom ’s  beard  to 
tingling.  "I  haff  chust  finished 
der  qvota  for  this  veek!”  he  roared 
gleefully.  "Ve  can  talk  now — ” 

He  came  toward  her,  eyes  fo- 
cused on  her  midriff.  He  took  her 
gently  but  very  firmly  by  the  el- 
bow. 

"Oh,  Professor,”  she  breathed, 
“I’m  just  so  lucky.” 

Deciding  to  be  subtle,  he  led 
her  to  a chair.  "Der  name  iss 
Schimmelhorn,”  he  cooed,  'but 
you  can  call  me  Papa.” 

"My  name  is  Sonya — er,  that 
is,  Sonya  Lou.” 

"I  call  you  Lulu.  Dot  iss  easier. 
Don’dt  vorry,  I show  you  a goot‘ 
time.  I call  der  bellboy  right  avay 
for  popcorn.” 

"I  Just  adore  popcorn,”  said 
Sonya  Lou. 

He  rang  for  room  service.  He 
sat  down  on  the  chair’s  arm  beside 


52 

iter.  He  let  his  right  hand  yraadex 
to  her  waist. 

She  looked  up  at  him.  “Now 
you  shall  tell  me  about  science” 
she  whispered  fervently. 

. Papa  Schimmelhorn’s  left 
hmid  moved  to  join  his  right.  Its 
a^ex  finger  hovered  over  her 
bdght  pajama  jackets  second  but- 
ton. “Ve  shtart,”  he  told  her,  “by 
talking  aboudt  birds.  I luff  der 
lidtle  birds — zo  cute!  Shparrows 
and  pipshqveaks  und  robin-red- 
chests.  But  ezpecially — ” he  gave 
the  Imtton  an  experimental  tweak, 
**— -dear  lidtle  cuckoos.” 

Ferdinand  Wilen’s  arrival  in 
INfew  Haven  coincided  closdy 
with  Papa  Schimrnelhorn’s  depar- 
tuie< — and,  at  first,  these  two 
events  seeined  to  do  wonders  for 
Captain  Perseus  Otter.  He  now 
jutted  forward  jauntily,  as 
though,  after  a perilous  and  weary 
voyage,  ' he  had  been  dry-docked 
and  given  a fre^  coat  of  paint. 
His  likeness  to  the  Hero  of  Tra- 
falgar became  even  more  striking 
dian  before.  He  even  made  an  ef- 
fort to  resume  his  fruitless  court- 
ship of  a lush  divorcee  named 
Mrs.  Bucklel^nk. 

But  two  days  passed — and 
three — and  four.  And  on  the  fifth 
day  Captain  Otter  found  himself 
once  more  in  the  presence  of  old 
Heinrich  Luedesing  and  of  the 
Board.  Only  now  they  were  rein- 
forced. Wilen  sat  there,  with  a 
nervous  tic  and  bags  under  his 


FANTASY  AND  SC1BN<»  FICTION 

eyes.  So  did  a vice  admiral,  blu£f- 
bowed  and  broad  in  the  beam. 
And  two  rear  admirals.  And  a big, 
ruddy  officer  whose  fourth  row  of 
gold  braid  was  topped  off  with  a 
loop. 

The  three  admirals,  obviously, 
were  giving  Captain  Otter  the  deep 
freeze.  The  other  officer,  just  as 
obviously,  was  trying  to  conceal 
what  amounted  to  an  utter  fasci- 
nation. 

“Dr.  Wilen,”  rapped  the  vk*e 
admiral,  “please  make  your  re- 
port.” 

Wilen's  thin  bands  wrestled 
with  each  other  on  the  table.  "I’ve 
checked  everything,”  he  said  hys- 
terically. “I-ve  gone  over  it  four 
times  — every  servo-mechanism, 
every  relay,  each  power  supply 
and  part  and  procea — every- 
thing. And  all  I've  found  is  a little 
waste  space,  and  foiir  terminals 
that  don’t  lead  anywhere.”  He 
gnawed  his  nails.  “It  ought  to 
work,  really  it  ought  to!  And — 
and  it  still  turns  out  my  tubes 
with  c-c-clockwork  in  them,  no 
matter  what  I do  I And  they’re  still 
OMtside  when  they  should  be  in* 
Oh,  ha-ha-ha-ha-ha /” 

He  collapsed  sobbing;  and  the 
vice  admiral  turned  to  Otter. 

“Well?”  he  said. 

Captain  Otter  shivered  and 
said  nothing. 

“Speak  up.  Otter.  Did  you  c* 
did  you  not  recommend  the  retiis- 
ment  of  this — er,  this  Papa 
Schimmelhorn  T 


LITIXE  ANTON 


53 


"Yes,  sir.  But  . . 

**1)0  you  realize,  Otter,  that  the 
Wilen  scanner  is  a project  on 
which  we  are  engaged  jointly  with 
the  British?  As  you  have  perhaps 
heard,  they  are  our  allies.  They 
have  gone  to  the  trouble.  Otter,  to 
send  their  largest  carrier  over  here 
— H.M.S.  Impressive,  commanded 
by  this  gentleman."  He  inclined 
his  head  toward  the  gold  braid 
vnth  the  loops.  "Captain  Sir  Sebas- 
tian Cobble,  C.B.  She’s  in  New 
York  harbor,  equipped  with  every- 
thing except  Assembly  M.  Assem- 
bly M must  be  installed  aboard  her 
in  two  days.  Forty-eight  hours, 
Otter.  See  to  it.  I’m  holding  you 
responsible.’* 

There  was  a sigh,  possibly  of  re- 
lief, from  Woodrow  Luedesing. 

“I  was  given  to  understand. 
Admiral — Captain  Perseus  Otter 
was  very  pale,  " — that  my  duties 
here  were  advisory,  L have  done 
what  I could.  I have  even  sent  a 
man  to  search  for  SchimmeUiorn. 
Beyond  that  . . .” 

“Come,  come.  Otter!  It’s  scarce- 
ly our  tradition  to  push  off  our  re- 
sponsibilities, especially  on  civil- 
lians.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that 
since  you  came  here  you  have  been 
nothing  but  a figurehead?" 

There  was  a sharp  crack  as  Cap- 
tain Sir  Sebastian  Cobble,  C.B.  bit 
his  pipestem  through. 

“Certainly  not,  sir,’*  sputtered 
Captain  Otter. 

“Well,  then,  you  should  have  no 
trouble.  Find  this  Schimmelhom, 


have  him  fix  this  Assembly  M or 
whatever  it  is,  and  get  it  aboard 
Impressive  ri^t  away." 

While  the  vice  admiral  was  say- 
ing this,  a secretary  had  enter^ 
and  whispered  something  in  old 
Heinrich’s  ear.  Now,  I am  zorry,” 
he  announced  unhappily.  “Papa 
Schimmelhom  ve  half  nodt  found, 
but  Mama  Schimmelhom  iss  here. 
If  you  vant,  I,  bring  her  in.” 

“By  all  means,”  nodded  the  vice 
admiral.  “She  may  have  informa- 
tion.” 

Old  Heinrich  left  die  room  and 
returned  immediately  escorting  a 
very  straight  old  lady  in  stiff  black 
taffeta.  She  was  armed  with  an 
umbrella,  and  there  was  fire  in  her 
eye. 

"Chentlemen,"  said  Heinrich 
Luedesing,  “I  like  you  to  meet 
Mama  Schimmelhom." 

The  admirals  rose* 

Mama  Schimmelhom  surveyed 
them.  "Gobs,"  she  remarked  disap- 
provingly. “Drinking  und  chazing 
girls  und  making  noise  at  night." 

There  was  a display  of  self- 
restraint.  “Ma-atn^ — ” the  vice  ad- 
miral bowed.  “I  am  delighted.  I 
am  sure  that  you  can  be  of  help 
to  us.  We  must  find  your  hus- 
band ..." 

“Ha!”  The  sharp  ferrule  of 
Mama  Schimmelhorn's  umbrella 
tapped  the  floor.  “Dot  no-goot! 
Fife  days  he  iss  avay — und  here 
iss  vot  I get!”  Opening  a black, 
beaded  reticule,  she  fished  out  a 
post  card,  and  passed  it  to  him. 


FANTASY  AND  SCtOTOE  FICTION 


54 

tt  was  not  ime  of  Little  Anton's, 
ft  was'a  picture  of  the  Taj  Mahal. 
On  one  of  the  windows,  a big  X 
had  been  scrawkd.  And,  on  the  re^ 
verse,  there  was  a message  which, 
roughly  translate!,  read:  Haffing 
shv^  Hme.  Vish  you  vas  here.  X 
fss  our  room.  Lu^  und  kisses,  your 
goot  husband,  Pa-pa.  (^Aho  iJdtle 
Antcm.) 

“But  he  forgete  der  postmarkr 
cried  Mama  Schimmelhorn.  "At- 
kntic  City!  Chust  vait!” 

The  vice  admiral  thanked  her. 
He  promised  to  deliver  Papa 
Schimmelhorn  into  her  fond  cus- 
tody, Th^  he  turned  again  to 
Catkin  Perseus  Otter. 

“Weil,  we  know  where  he  is,”  he 
declared.  “Take  my  advice,  Otter, 
if  it's  agreeable  to  Sir  Sebastian 
iitei^,  he  can  take  you  aboard  Im- 
pressive, and  put  to  sea.  Contact 
the  diore  patrol  at  Atlantic  City. 
They’ll  help  you  pick  up  Schim- 
melhom.  I hear  he  has  one  of  the 
ttsemblies  with  him,  so  that’s  all 
settkd.  Now  do  you  see  how  simple 
it  all  is?” 

"Dot’s  vot  I told  you.”  Old  Hein- 
rich smiled  and  nodded.  “Don'dt 
vorry.  Papa  Schimmelhorn  v^l 
fix." 

“I  shall  sail  at  four,  sir,”  said 
Captain  Sir  Sebastian  Cobble, 
^eing  Captain  Otter  dubiously. 

But  Dr.  Ferdinand  Wilen  said 
never  a word.  Staring  intently  at  a 
point  in  space,  he  was  busily  vi- 
brating his  lower  lip  with  a fore- 
finger. 


While  the  inventor  of  Assembly 
M was  puzzling  himself  into  this 
tizzy  at  New  Haven,  Papa  Schim- 
melhorn  and  Little  Anton  were  by 
no  means  idle  in  Atlantic  City. 

Day  by  day,  Little  Anton’s 
smuggled  stock  of  watches  and 
French  post  cards  dwindled,  while 
his  newly  acquired  roll  of  bills  fat- 
tonal  correspondingly. 

Day  after  day,  too,  Papa  Schim- 
melhom  pursued  Sonya  Lou,  or 
Lulu.  He  tempted  her,  succes- 
sively, with  feats  of  strength,  ac- 
counts of  his  past  concjuests,  li^i^ 
refreshments,  and  burning  word^ 
of  love.  He  even,  on  two  occasion^ 
gave  her  flowers. 

And  nothing  worked,  not  evea 
the  desolate  Cand  absolutely 
false)  complaint  that  Mania 
Schimmelhorn  did  not  under- 
stand him.  So  far  as  he  was  con- 
cerned, the  cuckoo  tattooed  on  her 
tummy  remained  a mystery. 

He  took  it  in  his  stride,  confid- 
ing cheerfoUy  in  Little  Anton  late 
at  night. 

"You  listen,  Lldtle  Anton,”  he 
would  say.  "Vith  dot  girl  Lulu  iss 
something  wrong  upshtairs.  Ima- 
chine!  Always  she  taUcs  of  scienze, 
scienze,  scienze.” 

“Eight  hunerd  and  sixty,  and 
eighty,  and  a hunerd — makes  nine 
hunerd,”  Little  Anton  would  re- 
ply, counting  his  ill-gotten  gains. 
“Not  bad  for  three  days’  work,  huh, 
Pop?” 

“Maybe  I pinch  a lidtle — she 
says,  ‘No,  no.  Tell  me  aboudt  dei 


jyXTLE  ANTCW 


55 


rfelatifity.’  Maybe  I bite  her  ear — 
she  says,  'Don’dt  think  of  me.  I 
chust  adore  der  dingus  in  der  box 

vot  iss  der  princible?’  Ach, 
Lidtle  Anton,  such  a vomani  It  iss 
nodt  natural." 

Then,  ‘Ta  know  what?”  Little 
Anton  would  remark.  “I  betcha 
she's  a spy.” 

And  so  it  went  until  the  after- 
noon before  Captain  Otter's  pain- 
ful experience  with  the  admirals. 
Little  Anton  had  sold  out  all 
his  post  cards  except  an  assorted 
package  of  three'  dozen,  and  he 
was  taking  a well-earned  rest  in 
the  lobby  of  the  Lorelei.  Deep  in  a 
chair  behind  a potted  palm,  eyes 
crossed  luxuriously,  he  ^Y^s  exam- 
ining the  more  interesting  features 
of  three  plump  young  matrons 
gossiping  some  yards  away. 

Suddenly,  almost  in  his  ear,  he 
heard  a voice.  It  was  low  and 
vibrant,  and  he  recognized  it  in- 
stantly as  Sonya  Lou^s. 

“But,  Boguslav,”  she  was  pro- 
testing, “I  have  been  using  Tech- 
nique Forty-four,  just  as  the  Hand- 
book says.  Can  I hdp  it  if  the  old 
fool  won’t  respond?  All  he  wants 
to  do  is  pinch  and  feel  and  take 
my  clothes  off.  My  God,  I’m  black 
and  blue  all  over!” 

A man’s  voice  answered  her. 
“Then  you  have  blundered,  Sonya. 
In  the  Handbook,  his  classifica- 
tion is  Beast,  Bourgeois,  Individ- 
ualistic, Subtype  Seven-C.  There- 
fore it  is  the  correct  technique.” 

Very  quietly,  Little  Anton  swiv- 


eled round.  Forgetting  the  young 
matrons,  he  peeked  throu^  palm 
leaves — and  saw  a pork-pie  hat. 

The  man’s  voice  hardened.  “The 
Handbook  is  based  on  Marxist  ide- 
logy.  It  is  never  wrong.  You  know 
the  penalty  for  failure,  do  you 
not?” 

“Of  course  I do.”  She  laughed 
nervously.  “I’m  not  giving  up — 
have  another  date  with  him  to- 
night. But-^oh,  why  couldn’t  it  be 
that  stupid  boy  of  his  instead?  I 
could  use  Technique  One — you 
know,  in  bed  with  nothing  on — 
the  shoe  box  in  advance  — and 
you  could  come  and  rescue  me  in 
time.”  She  groaned.  “At  least  I 
wouldn’t  have  to  wrestle  for  a 
week,” 

For  a few  moments  Little  An- 
ton’s face  assumed  the  pale  cast  of 
thought.  Then,  silently,  he  took 
the  post  cards  in  his  hand  and 
pushed  them  through  the  leaves 
and  dropped  them  in  Boguslav’s 
coat  pocket. 

Presently,  when  the  little  man 
left  the  hotel  alone,  he  followed 
him. 

That  night  Sonya  Lou  did  not 
keep  her  date  wHJi  Papa  Schim- 
melhorn.  He  waited  twenty  min- 
utes, thirty,  thirty-five.  He  paced 
the  floor.  Finally,  calling  her  room 
and  finding  she  was  out,  he  shrug- 
ged his  shoulders  philosophically.' 
"Iss  plenty  Ashes  in  der  sea,”  he 
told  himself.  “Der  cuckoo  iss  tat- 
tooed, zo  it  vill  vait.” 


56 

. With  that,  he  thought  of  a man- 
icurist whom  he  had  carefully  cul- 
tivated as  a spare,  poured  out  half 
the  bag  of  hard  rock  candy  which 
he  had  purchased  that  afternoon 
as  bait,  and,  humming  cheerily, 
went  off  to  her  apartment. 

Her  almost  certain  lack  of 
avian  adornment  did  not  spoil  his 
evenirig  in  the  least — and  he  was 
in  a mellow  mood  when  he  came 
back  to  the  hotel  at  four  a.m.  He 
smiled  tolerantly  at  Little  Anton’s 
untouched  bed,  tumbled  into  his 
own,,  and  slept  the  sleep  of  con- 
scious virtue  until  noon. 

Oi  awakening,  his  first  thought 
was  of  Sonya  Lou.  Picking  up 

phone,  1^  touted.  ‘‘Goot  mor- 
uingi”  to  tl^  clerk.  “Iss  Papa 
SchimmeUiorn.  1 vant  to  shpeak  to 
tvduV 

“Miss  Mikvik  checked  out  two 
houxs'ago,”  said  the  flat  Nantucket 
voice  clammily.  “The  management 
would  hke  to  know  when  you  in- 
tend to  follow  her  example.” 

“Vot?’’  The  cuckoo  on  the  abdo- 
men— so  l«autiful! — took  wing 
and  disappeared,  perhaps  forever. 
“Vhere  did  she  go?” 

“No  forwarding  address,” 
snapped  the  receiver.  It  clicked 
offensively,  and  all  was  still. 

Papa  Schimmelhorn  replaced  it 
on  the  hook.  He  understood  imme- 
i^ately  ffiat  his  magrietic  person- 
ality had  been  too  much  for  Lulu. 
It  had  aroused  hidden  passions  of 
which  she  was  afraid,  and  she  had 
run  away.  Pityingly,  he  hoped  the 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCB  FICTIOV 

poor  giH  would  never  realize  Wbat 
she  had  missed. 

He  sat  up  and  stretched,  in- 
tending to  give  Little  Anton  a use- 
ful pointer  about  Life  and  women 
— and  found  that  Little  Anton  was 
still  among  the  missing.  “Ach, 
veil,”  he  thought,  “boys  vill  be 
boys.  He  iss  vith  some  high  zchool 
girl — necking  und  pedting  Iflce 
der  lidtle  dofes — zo  cute!” 

Full  of  sentiment)  he  dressed, 
brushed  out  his  beard,  and  went  to 
lunch.  En  route,  a headline  caught 
his  eye : 

RED  DIPLOMAT  ARRESTED 
HERE!  Obscene  Pictures  'Dirty 
Wall  Street  PJof  Declares  Iron 
Curtain  Auachil 

He  looked  more  closely : 

]uly  12:  [he  read]  Boguslav 
V.  Popopoff,  Rumgarian 
consular  commercial  at- 
tach^, is  currently  in  Atlan- 
tic City's  jail  charged  with 
possessbn  of  three  dozen 
pornographic  post  cards  de- 
scribed by  arresting  officers 
as  “the  hottest  we’ve  seen 
yet.” 

Picked  up  late  yesterday 
on  a tip  furnished  by  an  un- 
identified teen-ager  whom  he 
allegedly  approached  as  a 
potential  customer,  Popopoff 
was  . . . 

‘Tsk-tsk,  how  inderesting,”  said 
Papa  Schimmelhorn,  as  he  contin- 
ued on  his  way,  to  spend  the  bal- 
ance of  the  afternoon  along  ffie 


LITTLE  ANTON 

boardwalk  and  the  beach,  sur* 
rounded  by  a giggling  coterie  in 
negligible  bathing  suits,  each  one 
of  whom  he  graciously  permitted 
to  pull  his  whiskers,  feel  his  gigan- 
tic biceps,  and  steal  a kiss. 

It  was  not  until  after  supper, 
when  he  was  returning  dreamily  to 
the  hotel,  that  other  matters  forced 
themselves  upon  his  mind.  A gray 
jeep  whipped  around  a corner, 
slammed  on  its  brakes,  and  skid- 
ded alongside.  Its  pair  of  shore 
patrolmen  regarded  him  with  some 
astonishment. ' 

reckon  you’re  Pappy  Schim- 
melhorn?”  one  of  them  said. 

“Der  vun  und  only,  Chunior — 
dot's  me!” 

“Hop  aboard,  Pappy.  You’re 
cornin’  for  a ride.  The  Navy  wants 
you  bad.” 

“Go  avay!”  laughed  Papa 
Schimmelhorn,  stepping  back  ‘ a 
pace.  “Der  funny  pants  I do  nodt 
like.  Alzo  I am  too  old.” 

"Look,  Pappy."  The  jeep  began 
to  snort  impatiently.  “We  ain’t  re- 
cruitin’ you.  There’s  big  brass  in  a 
hurry  back  at  your  hotel.  Now  tuck 
the  spinach  in  and  come  along.” 

"Ack,  dot  iss  different.”  At  once. 
Papa  Schimmelhorn  guessed  that 
Captain  Otter  was  in  need  of  help. 
“He  vants  to  ask  me  how  to  catch 
his  girl.  Of  course  I cornel” 

‘ He  vaulted  in.  The  jeep  took 
oS.  Beard  streaming  in  the  wind, 
he  was  whisked  back  to  the  Lorelei, 
where  the  shore  patrolmen  accom- 
panied him  directly  to  his  door. 


.57 

He  entered  with  a flourish. 
“Veil,  sailor  boy,”  he  roar^,  spy- 
ing Captain  Perseus  Otter,  "now 
you  half  goot  senzel  Soon,  vhfen  I 
teach  you,  der  vomen  vill  run 
after  you  like  flies.”  His  -gaze 
moved  to  the  right.  “Und  you 
bring  a friend!”  he  cried  delight- 
edly. “A  cholly  Chack  Tarl  Goot, 
ve  get  him  a date  too.”  He  looked 
between  them.  “Oh,  ho-ho-ho!  Und 
here  iss  Lidtle  Anton,  der  naughdy 
boy,  who  iss  oudt  all  night.” 

" Captain  Otter  rose.  A mild  case 
of  seasickness  had  made  him 
rather  green  around  the  gills.  He 
looked  as  though  he  had  spent 
some  years  under  a moldering  bow- 
sprit in  the  Sargasso  Sea. 

“Mr.  Schimmelhorn.”  He  tried 
heroically  to  smile.  "This  is  C^>- 
tain  Sir  Sebastian  Cobble,  com- 
manding His  Majesty’s  Ship  Im- 
pressive. now  lying-to  oflrshbre.” 

Papa  Schimmelhorn  and  Cap- 
tain Cobble  shook  hands,  espress- 
ing  mutual  pleasure. 

“Clever  lad  you  have  here,”  said 
Sir  Sebastian,  gesturing  at  Little 
Anton  with  his  pipe.  “Frightfully 
well  informed.  We’ve  been  disc- 
cussing  smuggling — fascinating 
— interested  in  it  since  I was  a 
boy.” 

“He  iss  pregocious,”  bragged 
Schimmelhorn.  "It  iss  in  der  fam- 
ily. Myzelf — ” 

Hastily,  Capatin  "Perseus  Otter 
Intervened.  “I  fear  that  I have 
failed  to  make  our  purpose  clear. 
It  is  not — er,  recreation.  Certain 


58 


•-^vaa-^iffteutUes  bave  oune  up 
in  the  plant,  and  — well,  the  long 
and  short  o£  it,  ha-ha,  is  that  we 
now  want  you  to  hx  the  assembly 
you  have  with  you  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble, and  install  it  aboard  Impres- 
sive right  away.” 

“Ha,  zo  der  vorks  iss  fouled?”  • 
lauded  Papa  Schimmelhorn.  “I 
told  you  zo.  Veil,  don’dt  you  vorry, 
sailor  boy,  vhen  Albert  back  to 
Princeton  comes,  ve  fix.  Iss  chust 
days,  imd  ve  can  make  some 
vhoopee  vhile  ve  vait.” 

"Tew  days?"  Captain  Otter 
idiought  dismally  of  his  number  on 
the  promotion  list.  “It’s  an  emer- 
gency. You’ll  have  to  do  it  by  to- 
morrow noon.  Please,  Mr.  Schim- 
mdhom.” 

‘T)ot  iss  imbossible,  Der  inzide 
is^  shtill  oudt.  1 get  der  dingus, 
und  1 diow  you  vhy — ” 

little  Anton  shifted  uncomfor- 
tably. “Hey,  Pop  . . 

“Shh,  lidtle  Anton.  Vhen  I am 
busy,  do  not  indexrupt.”  Papa 
Schimmelhorn  was  on  his  knees, 
searching  beneath  his  bed.  “How 
stranchei  I hide  der  shoe  box  here 
before  1 go,  because  it  iss  a zecret. 
Now  vhere  iss?” 

“Pop.’^ 

"Shudt  up!  Maybe  iss  on  der 
Oder  side  . . 

“Pop.”  Little  Anton  said,  “you 
might  as  well  get  up.  Your  shoe 
box  isn’t  there.” 

There  was  a dreadful  hush. 

"Where  d’ya  think  I been  all 
night?  That  Sonya  Lou  of  yours 


VANTAST  AND  SC^«CS  VtCTR»f 

was  after  it — she  was  a spy.  I ped- 
dled it  to  her  . . Little  Anton 
smirked  and  licked  his  chops.  “But 
not  for  money , Pop . Uh-«fe 

"VoT?”  bellov^  Papa  Schim- 
melhom.  “Vot  haff  you  done?’’ 

“Incredible!’*  Captain  Cobble 
cried,  ruining  ano^er  pipestem 
permanently, 

'^Treason!  Cold-blooded  trea- 
son!” gasped  Captain  Perseus  Ot- 
ter, turning  an  even  more  livid 
color  than  before. 

“Aw,  keep  yer  britches  on.’*  Lit- 
tle Anton  remained  unperturbed. 
“I  sealed  that  shoe  box  good.  I 
betcha  she’s  halfway  to  Europe 
with  it  now.  But  they  won’t  find  no 
dingus  in  it.  What  kinda  sucker  do 
you  think  I am?”  He  pointed  at  the 
bare  nail  preluding  from  the  wall. 
“Anything  secret  about  a cuckoo 
clock?”  he  said. 

Captain  Otter  wiped  die  cold 
sweat  from  his  brow.  His  momen- 
tary vision  of  Boards  of  Inquiry 
and  of  Naval  Courts  started  to  dis- 
solve. “You — you  mean?”  he  stut- 
tered. "It’s  still  here?" 

“Right  in  Pop’s  carpetbag.”  Lit- 
tle Anton  swelled  his  chest.  “I 
guess  I’m  pretty  sharp,  huh,  Cap?” 

Papa  Schimmelhorn  reached  in 
the  carpetbag.  He  found  the  silver 
ovoid  instantly.  He  reached  in 
again,  and  felt  around — and 
brought  his  hand  out  empty.  “But 
here  iss  only  half.”  He  frownedi 
“Vhere  iss  der  rest  of  it?” 

"Oh,  that"  Little  Anton  smiled 
supercili(xisly.  ‘1  fixed  it,  genius. 


JJTfLK  ANtpN 

I put  it  back  inside  where  it  be- 
longs.” 

"Nonzensei”  exclaimed  Papa 
ScJiimmelhorn . 

"Okay,  you  don't  believe  me.” 
Sneering,  Little  Anton  held  out  a 
hand.  "Gimme." 

He  took  Assembly  M.  His  eyes 
crossed  quite  appallingly.  His  fin- 
g^s  made  one  quick  and  curious 
movement  . . . 

And  there  was  the  tube,  com- 
plete with  clockwork,  out  again. 

"Betcha  you  don't  know  how  it’s 
done!"  he  challenged  them. 

But  Captain  Perseus  Otter  was 
not  interested.  “My  boy,”  he  said, 
not  unemotionally,  “these  little 
technical  details  can  wait.  You 
have  done  splendidly.  I person- 
ally will  mention  you  in  my  re- 
port. But  now  we  have  important 
work  to  do.”  He  tapped  his  watch. 
"We’d  best  be  under  way." 
i And,  as  they  headed  for  the  sea 
and  ff.M.5.  Impressive^  he  told 
i-  himself  that  now,  at  least,  dieir 
troubles  were  all  over. 

He  had  forgotten  the  brass  gears 
in  the  tube. 

Thirty-six  hours  after  Papa 
'■  Schimmelhorn  and  Little  Anton 
I put  to  sea,  the  Chief  of  Naval 
Operations  flew  in  from  Washing- 
! ton.  Accompanied  by  two  harried 
^ persons  from  the  State  Depart- 
tnent,  he  stormed  into  the  office  of 
: that  vice  admiral  who  had  made 
-.iife  so  difficult  for  Captain  Otter, 
ill  the  most  unfriendly  tone 
ilmaginaUe,  said/We/l?" 


59  . 

The  vice  admiral  shuddered 
aod  said  nothing. 

"Speak  up,  Madinson.  You  are 
aware  that  the  British  are  qur  al- 
lies, are  you  not?  You  understand 
that,  like  most  seafaring  people, 
they  much  prefer  to  keep  their 
naval  craft  afloat?  And  you  admit, 

I trust,  that  it  is  to  our  interest  to 
help  them  do  so?” 

'Y-yes,  sir — but  ..." 

"May  I remind  you,  Marlinson, 
that  we’ve  had  Otters  in  the  Navy 
since  the  Revolution?  Surely  you 
have  heard  of  Commodore  Colum- 
bus Otter,  who  sailed  his  squadron 
into  the  Susquehannah  River  and 
disappeared,  a feat  no  other  officer 
has  duplicated?  And  of  Command- 
er Leviathan  Otter,  who  went 
dovvn  with  the  monitor  Mugwump 
in  Charleston  harbor  in  186S, 
quite  certain  that  he  was  putting 
in  to  Portland,  Maine?  And  of 
Lieutenant  Ahab  Otter,  who  so 
clearlv  demonstrated  the  imprac- 
ticability of  diving  submarines 
with  their  hatches  open?”  He 
raised  his  voice,  ’‘And  knowing  all 
this,  Marlinson/'  he  roared,  “you 
ordered  Captain  Verseus  Otter 
ABOARD  A ship!” 

Shamefacedly,  the  vice  admiral 
hung  his  head. 

"And  not  just  any  ship.  Fully 
aware  of  his  remarkable  app^ear- 
ance,  you  ordered  him  aboard  a 
British  ship  . . 

The  Chief  of  Naval  Operations 
continued  for  several  minutes 
more,  deploring  the  effiete  age 


60 

which  prohibited  such  pictur- 
esque  and  useful  customs  as  keel- 
hauling and  flogging  through  the 
fleet.  Then — 

“Marlinson,”  he  said,  "H.M.S. 
Impressive  picked  up  your  people 
on  Wednesday,  at  22:04.  At 
23:18,  we  received  a strange 
radiogram.  It  read,  scanner 
WORKS  STOP  PUTTING  TO  SEA 
FOR  MORE  EXTENSIVE  TESTS 
STOP  ARRIVE  New  York  noon 
Friday  stop' Papa  sends  love 
TO  Mama  stop  (signed)  Cob- 
ble.' There  has  been  nothing 
^nce.  Every  available  air  and  sur- 
face craft  has  searched  without 
success.  We  can  only  conclude 
that  H.M.S.  Impressive  has  gone 
down  with  all  hands.  There  will 
be  grave  international  repercus- 
sions, Marlinson.” 

“I  can  just  hear  Mr.  Churchill 
now,”  groaned  the  first  State  De- 
partment man,  “in  Parliament.” 

“And  Pravda,"  said  the  second, 
somberly.  “And  Senator  McCarthy. 
And- — and  Mr.  Bevan.” 

“Don’t  even  thmfe  of  it  . . 

The  Chief  of  Naval  Operations 
rose  to  go.  ‘"We’ve  kept  this  secret, 
Admiral  Marlinson,  so  far.  But 
after  noon  today  it  must  come  out. 
It's  your  responsibility.  Therefore 
you  will  accompany  the  British 
naval  attach^  when  he  goes  out  to 
meet  their  ship.  When  she  does 
not  show  up,  you  will  explain  why 
sjie  isn’t  there.  After  that,  you  can 
report  to  me  in  person.” 

They  left;  and,  half  an  hoiir 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

later,  the  vice  admiral  dismally 
stepped  aboard  the  burnished 
barge  which,  he  was  sure,  fate  had 
chosen  to  witness  one  of  the  clos- 
ing scenes  of  his  career.  The 
British  naval  attach^  was  there, 
attended  by  two,  aides,  sundry  offi- 
cers of  his  own  staff,  and  a pert  en- 
sign in  the  Waves.  So  were  Hein- 
rich Luedesing  and  Woodrow 
Luedesing  and  Ferdinand  Wilen, 
somewhat  calmer  now. 

Disciplining  his  voice,  he 
greeted  them.  The  barge  cast  off; 
and,  all  the  way  down  the  bay,  he 
prayed  devoutly  for  a miracle.  But, 
when  minutes  ahead  of  time  the 
point  of  rendezvous  was  reached, 
the  sea  was  bare. 

The  naval  attach^  searched 
the  hotizon  with  binoculars. 
"Strange,”  he  said,  “very  strange. 
She  really  ought  to  be  in  sight  by 
notv.” 

Everyone  else  made  similar  re- 
marks. 

Only  Vice  Admiral  Marlinson 
was  silent.  The  seconds  passed. 
High  noon  came  nearer  quite  rer 
morselessly.  Anxiety  appeared  on 
every  face  but  Heinrich  Luedes- 
ing’s. 

Finally,  when  only  fifteen  sec- 
onds still  remained,  the  Admiral 
braced  himself.  He  drew  the  naval 
attach^  aside.  “It  is  my  painful 
duty  . . .”  he  began.  He  stopped 
to  wipe  his  brow.  “It  is  my  dutyr— ” 

He  had  no  chance  to  finish. 
There  was  a shrill  squeal  from  the 
little  Wave,  a general  cry— 


61 


LITTUS.  ANTOK 

"By  God,  there  she  is!”  ex- 
{^imed  the  attach^,  pointing  ex- 
citedly  to  port. 

And  there,  scarcely  a cable- 
length  away,  long  and  gray  and 
grim,  lay  H.M.S,  Impressive.  Her 
crew  was  mustered  on  the  Bight 
deck  for  review.  Her  band  was 
^riking  up  God  Save  the  King. 
And,  over  all,  a foghorn  voice  was 
shouting,  "Ach,  Heinrich!  Here 
I am!  Yoo-Hoo!  Blow  der  man 
I:  cownI  Ship  ahoyI’* 

V Within  two  minutes,  the  dazed 
vice  admiral  was  being  piped 
aboard.  In  less  than  three,  he  had 
met  Papa  Schimmelhorn  and  Lit- 
; tie  Anton,  both  wearing  jaunty 
sailor  hats  with  H.M.S.  Iwpres- 
/ sive  on  their  ribbons.  In  five,  he 
t had  recovered  to  the  point  where, 
'f  drawing  Captain  Perseus  Otter 
i slightly  to  one  side,  he  could  de- 
mand,  "Where  in  the  name  of  all 
i that's  holy  have  you  been?” 

Captain  Otter  was  unshaven. 
He  wore  his  cap  at  an  angle  which, 
on  any  Junior  officer,  he  would 
t strongly  have  disapproved.  But 
there  was  a new  light  in  his  eye. 

|>  "At  sea,  sir!”  said  he. 
ij  ‘^Indeed?"  barked  the  vice  ad- 
J miral,  warming  up.  “Are  you 
!■  aware,  sir,  that  every  blessed  plane 
and  ship  and  State  Department 
clerk  has  been  searching  for  you 
I from,  hell  to  breakfast  since  you 
disappeared?” 

' Captain  Otter  smiled.  He  began 
yo  laugh.  He  held  his  sides,  threw 
his  head,  and  whooped. 


The  admiral’s  emotional  baront' 
eter  swung  sharply  over  toward 
apoplexy.  “And  would  you  mind 
informing  me  just  what  is  so  amus- 
ing?” he  asked  dangerously. 

But  it  was  Papa  Schimmelhorn 
who  answered  him.  In  the  most 
friendly  fashion,  he  slapped  him 
on  die  back.  “Ho~ho-ho-hor  he 
boomed,  “Of  courze  you  could 
nodt  find  us,  sailor  boy.  It  iss  der 
Schimmelhorn  Effect!  Der  lidtle 
vheels  inzide  der  tube  go  round. 
Und  right  avay  ve  are  infisiblel" 

"In  —invisAle 

“Precisely,  sir,”  said  Captain 
Perseus  Otter,  making  his  come- 
back with  surprising  speed.  “And 
completely  so — to  the  human  eye, 
to  cameras,  even  to  radar.  How- 
ever, it  is  my  duty  tp  request  that 
you,  sir,  ask  for  no  further  infor- 
mation.” He  smiled  serenely.  “The 
Schimmelhorn  Effect  is  highly 
secret.” 

"But — ” The  admixal  started  to 
protest.  He  got  no  further. 

“Eeeekr  cried  the  little  Wave, 
behind  him. 

He  whirled.  The  Wave  was 
blushing  furiously.  She  was  point- 
ing an  outraged  finger  at  Captain 
Cobble.  “Make — make  him  stop 
doing  that!”  she  squealed. 

Captain  Cobble  chuckled.  His 
eyes  uncrossed  themselves. 

“Here,  here!  What’s  going  on?” 
snapped  the  vice  admiral. 

For  just  an  instant  Captain  Sir 
Sebastian  Cobble  looked  round 
self-consciously.  Then: 


62 

"GoiRg  on,  sir?”  He  ■winked  at 
Little  Anton.  ‘*Ah — just  a bit  mwe 
of  tliis  scientific  know-how.  The — 
the  Fledermaus  Effect.” 

It  would  be  profitless  to  elabo- 
rate at  too  great  a length  on  sub- 
sequent events  aboard  H.M.S. 
Impressive.  The  vice  admiral  de- 
Hvered  a short  and  stirring  ad- 
dress, touching  on  such  subjects 
as  “tradition”  and  “hands  across 
the  sea.”  Captain  Sir  Sebastian 
Cobble  bid  a warm  farewell  to 
Captain  Perseus  Otter,  assuring 
him — perhaps  with  his  own  ves- 
sel’s unadorned  prow  in  mind — 
that  the.Ro-yal  Navy  could  always 
find  a place  for  him  if  he  retired. 
Finally  Papa  Schimmelhorn  was 
borne  dovyn  the  gangplank  on  the 
shoulders  of  four  stalwart  seamen, 
while  the  entire  ship’s  comple- 
ment sang  For  He's  a Jolly  Good 
Fellow  at  the  top  of  their  voices. 

Immediately  afterward.  Cap- 
tain Otter,  Papa  Schimmelhorn, 
and  Little  Anton  were  flown  to 
Washington,  where  they  were 
questioned  in  great  secrecy  by 
naval  experts,  by  technical  ex- 
perts, and  by  envious  representa- 
tives of  the  Air  Forces  and  the 
Army — all  of  whom,  finding  them- 
selves beyond  their  depth,  con- 
curred in  recommending  that  the 
whole  business  be  left  in  Captain 
Otter’s  obviously  able  hands. 

It  was  not  until  four  days  later 
that  the  Board  of  Directors  of  the 
Luedesing  Time  and  Instrument 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

Corporation  of  New  Haven  met  for 
the  express  purpose  of  establishing 
a new  order. 

At  the  head  of  the  table,  old 
Heinrich  Luedesing  glared  at  his 
son  Woodrow  and  at  the  Board.  ‘T 
haff  talked  to  Papa  Schimmel- 
horn,” he  said.  “Because  ve  are  old 
friends,  he  says  he  vill  come  back 
— but  only  if  ve  make  him  Chen- 
eral  Manager,  und  Voodrow  vorks 
for  him  . . 

“This  is  ridiculous!”  Woodrow 
Luedesing’s  indignation  was  loud 
and  shrill.  "The  man  is  utterly  un- 
qualified! Why,  I’ll  resign!  I’ll . . 

"Bah!”  Old  Heinrich  cut  him 
short.  “You  vatch  oudt,  Voodrow, 
more  nonzense  und  you  haff  a 
chob  vorking  inztead  for  Lidtle 
Antoni” 

Woodrow  Luedesing  looked 
around  at  the  Board  members  for 
support — and  found  them  unre- 
sponsive. Pouting,  he  lapsed  into 
a sullen  silence. 

“Veil,  dot  iss  zettled,”  his  father 
said  decisively.  “Now,  Herr  Dok- 
tor  Wilen  makes  his  report,  und 
Captain  Otter  maybe  giffs  a 
speech.  Then  ve  haff  a vote.” 

Ferdinand  Wilen  stood  up,  his 
expression  a curious  mixture  of  re- 
laxation and  bewilderment.  “Gen- 
tlemen,” he  said,  “I  know  yoq  real- 
ize how  vital  the  Schimmelhorn 
Effect  is  to  our  strength  and  our 
security.  I’m  sure  you’d  like  to  un- 
derstand just  how  it  works.  Well, 
so  would  I.  At  present  the  im- 
portant thing  is  that  it  does  work.” 


X/imiE  XNarm 


63 


Serial  of  the  dicectois  nodded 
^siphatically. 

“Ycnar  Papa  SchimmeBiom — ” 
Wilen  griniMd,  4id  fare  best  to 
expiatn  the  inrmciple.  He  said  that 
at  was  all  because  of  Maxic’s  Con- 
stance, with  whom  he  first  became 
l^quainted  as  a janitor  at  Ge- 
faeva  Institute  of  Higher  Wiysics. 
It  took  me  quite  a while  to  see 
what  he  was  getting  at.  His  genius 
functions  at  a subconscious  level. 
It  absorbs  theoretical  information 
which  is  quite  meaningless  to  him, 
extrapolates  from  it,  ami  inte- 
grates it  with  his  own  prtmidve 
technology.  Presto,  out  comes  a — 
4ingusf  In  this  instance,  by  Maxie 
I think  he  means  Max  Plandc.  The 
wheels  go  round — something 
haj^ns  which  may  involve  the 
value  of  Planck’s  Constant,  and— 
we  have  invisibility !” 

“Banarlcabiel’*  said  one  or  two 
of  the  directors.  “Astounding!” 
Tmirmured  several  others. 

“To  say  the  least!  And  he  used 
dte  same  principle  to  conceal  his 
wrtra  manufacturing  parts.  Invisi- 
ble, they  occupied  the  Vaste 
space’  in  the  unit,  and  were  pow- 
ered by  leads  which  seemed  to  go 
nowhere.  That  was  why  it  drove 
me  to  distraction  when  I tried  to 
fix  it.’* 

“But  why  didn’t  the — the  din- 
gus come  out  in  cwie  piece  instead 
of  two?”  scmieone  asked.. 

“Because  he  missed  three  weeks 
of  lectures  in  G^eva.  Something 
jiret  wasn't  in  the  recipe.  And 


that — " he  shoddened  sightly, 
brings  u$  to  Little  Antcm  Fieder- 
mans,  who  has  tucned  out  to  be  a 
perfect  sub^tute  for  that  some- 
thing d»at  isn’t  there.  In  child- 
hood, rare  individuals  display  su- 
prai^onnai  powei^ — the,  psych*^- 
netic  poltergeist  phenomenon,  for 
instance.  According  to  the  para- 
psychologists who  have  examined 
him,  our  Little  Anton  has  retained 
contact  with  an  area  erf  exigence 
which  he  describes  as  'just  around 
the  comer.’  It  seems  to  have  no 
<n:dinaiy  spadotemporai  coewdi- 
nates,  but  to  exist  purely  in  reia- 
tkm  to  him.  Light  contact  with  it 
— when  his  eyes  cross — enables 
him  to  see  through  aich  otherwise 
frustrating  substances  as  silk, 
wool,  £md  nylon.  A closer  contact 
— well,  you’ve  seen  the  demcm- 
stration.  He  holds  Ae  shell  erf  As- 
sembly M ‘around  the  corner.* 
Half  of  it  seems  to  disappear.  He 
pc^s  the  tube  in.  And  fhere  we 
are!” 

A portly  director  wrinkled  his 
brow  unhappily.  "This  science 
stuff’s  too  deep  fm*  me,”  he  grum- 
bled. “What  do  we  do  now?  That’s 
what  I want  to  know.** 

Wilen  resumed  his  seat,  and 
Captain  Otter  rose  to  address  the 
Board.  He  was  still  unshaven.  In 
fact,  it  was  now  ^^rent  Aat  he 
was  letting  his  beard  grow. 

“i  fed  that  this  is  not  the  time,” 
he  stated,  “to  quibble  over  theories 
and  petty  technicalities.  Papa 
Schinunelhom  has  shown  his 


■ 64 

practical  ability  to  my  complete 
satisfaction.  Furthermore,  he  and 
young  Fledermaus  disposed  adroit- 
ly of  two  extremely  dangerous  for- 
eign agents.  It  is  the  opinion  of 
the  Department  of  the  Navy — ” 
he  frowned  severely  at  Woodrow 
Luedesing,  ** — tiiat  Papa  Schim- 
melhorn  should  be  reinstated  on 
his  own  terms.” 

He  sat  down  again.  Old  Hein- 
rich called  the  Board  to  order. 
And  without  delay,  by  a vote  of 
eight  to  one.  Papa  Schimmelhom 
was  promoted  to  the  post  of  Gen- 
eral Manager. 

A burst  of  cheering  followed 
the  announcement,  and  a secre- 
tary was  instantly  sent  off  to  carry 
the  good  news.  Some  minutes 
passed  before  the  Board  became 
aware  that  Dr.  Wilen  had  some- 
thing more  to  say. 

“Though  I am  not  associated 
with  this  firm,”  he  began  apolo- 
getically, “I  should  like  to  make 
one  suggestion  . . .” 

Old  Heinrich  urged  him  to  pro- 
ceed. 

“A  suggestion  which  I trust  will 
be  taken  in  good  part  by  all  con- 
cerned. Papa  Schimmelhorn  is 
undoubtedly  a genius.  So,  in  his 
way,  is  little  Anton.  Besides, 
both  of  them  have  a certain  excess 
of  exuberance,  of  foie  de  vivre. 
Perhaps  it  would  be  well — tact- 
fully, of  course — to  take  a few 
precautions  in  order,  to— er,  pro- 
tect them  from  themselves?” 

Old  Heinrich  nodded  soberly. 


FANTASY  AND  SCKNCB  FICTION 

Captain  Perseus  Otter  reluctantly 
agreed  that  Dr.  Wilen  might  have 
a point.  But  Woodrow  Luedesing 
reacted  much  more  sharply. 

His  pout  vanished.  Abruptly 
his  face  regained  its  rosy  hue.  He 
smiled  beatifically. 

“Gentlemen,”  he  said,  “leave 
that  to  me.” 

At  three  the  following  after- 
nopn,  Woodrow  Luedesing  foimd 
Papa  Schimmelhorn  and  Little 
Anton  in  the  office  which  he  him- 
self had  formerly  occupied.  They 
were  entertaining  the  shipping- 
office  blonde.  Papa  Schimmel- 
horn, his  arm  around  her  slender 
waist,  was  telling  her  all  about 
Sonya  Lou.  "...  und  Lidtle  An- 
ton says  dot  it  vas  nodt  a cuckoo 
after  all!  It  vas  a bullvinchl  Ho- 
ho-kol” 

“Am  I intruding?”  Woodrow 
asked  diffidently. 

Papa  Schimmelhorn  assured 
him  that  he  was  not.  "Ack,  now 
you  vork  for  me,  you  come  right  in! 
I vas  chust  telling  Mimi  here 
aboudt  der  lady  shpy.  Imachine 
it!  To  Europe  she  has  ^bne  vith 
der  old  shoe  box,  und  opened  it, 
und  . , Here  in  der  paper, 
look.  Oh,  ho-ho-hof 

Woodrow  Luedesing  accepted 
the  newspaper,  and,  while  Papa 
Schimmelhorn  almost  split  his 
sides,  he  read  a dispatch  from 
Tflss  which  claimed  peevishly  that 
the  first  cuckoo  clock  had  really 
been  invented  by  an  intelljgent 


UITLE  ANTOli 

y<MiBg  peasi^  &om  Kiev  centudes 
1]be  Westeoi  wodd  ^ad  ei^zi 
dF  sodi  a tfaing. 

"How  fascinating,”  Woodrow 
remarked  politely.  "But  \diat  I 
really  came  to  see  you  about,  sir, 
was  a small  business  matter  . . 

"Don’dt  vorry  aboudt  business, 
W)odrowl”  cried  Papa  Schimmel- 
horn.  “I  teach  you  now  how  nodt 
to  be  a stuffed  shirt.  I teach  you  to 
liaff  fun!” 

"That’s  very  good  of  you,”  re- 
plied Woodrow,  “but,  as  you  are 
General  Manager,  I felt  that  you 
should  be  the  first  to  meet  oui  new 
Director  of  Security.  She’s  quite 
remarkable.” 

*‘Skei’*  Papa  Schimraelhorn 
flexed  his  biceps  automatically. 
Woodrow,  iss  shebeaudtiful?” 

"I  would  say  statuesque,  sir. 


6S 

But  ■come  see  for  yourseff.  She's 
for  you  in  her  o£lce  right 

now.” 

Papa  Schimmelhom  gave  the 
diipping-room  blonde  a hasty 
peck.  Taking  Little  Anton  and 
Woodrow  each  by  an  arm,  he  led 
the  way. 

Thus  they  marched  down  the 
hall — but,  when  they  came  to  the 
door  marked  Security,  Woodrow 
stepped  aside.  "I'll  see  you  later, 
sir,”  he  said,  with  a broad  wink. 

“You  are  a goot  boy,  after  all,'' 
asserted  Papa  Schimmelhom,  re- 
turning it. 

Then  Papa  Schimmelhom  and 
Little  Anton  opened  the  door  and 
went  in  eagerly.  They  stopped 
dead  still.  They  stared — 

"Ha — r said  Mama  Schimmei- 
horn. 


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SCIENCE 


FIRST  AND  REARMOST 


by  Isaac  Asimov 


When  i was  in  junior  high-sciiool,  I used  to  amuse  myself  by 
swinging  on  the  rings  in  gym.  (I  was  lighter  then,  and  more  foolhardy.) 
On  one  occasion,  I grew  weary  of  the  exercise,  so  at  the  end  of  one 
swing,  I let  go. 

It  was  my  feeling  at  the  time,  as  I distinctly  remember,  that  I would 
continue  my  semi-circular  path  and  go  swooping  upward  until  gravity 
took  hold;  and  that  I would  then  come  down  light  as  a gossamer,  land- 
ing on  my  toes  after  a perfect  entrechat. 

That  is  not  the  way  it  happened.  My  path  followed  nearly  a straight 
line,  tangent  to  the  semi-circle  of  swing  at  the  point  at  which  I let 
go.  1 landed  good  and  hard  on  one  side. 

After  my  head  cleared,  I stood  up*^  and  to  this  day  that  is  the  hardest 
fall  I have  ever  taken . 

1 might  have  drawn  a great  deal  of  intellectual  good  out  of  this 
incident.  I might  have  poiidered  on  the  effects  of  inertia;  puzzled  out 
methods  of  summing  vectors;  or  deduced  some  facts  about  differential 
calculus. 

However,  I will  be  frank  with  you.  What  really  impressed  itself 
upon  me  was  the  fact  that  the  force  of  gravity  was  both  mighty  and 
dangerous  and  that  if  you  weren’t  watching  every  minute,  it  would 
clobber  you. 

Presumably,  I had  learned  that,  somewhat  less  drastically,  early  in 
life;  and  presumably,  every  human  being  who  ever  got  onto  his  hind 
legs  at  the  age  of  a year  or  less  and  promptly  toppled,  learned  the  same 
fact. 

* People  react  oddly.  After  I stood  tip,  1 completely  ignored  my  badly  sprained 
(and  possibly  broken,  though  it  later  turned  out  not  to  be)  right  wrist  and  lifted 
my  untouched  left  wrist  to  my  ear.  What  worried  me  was  whether  my  wrist-watch 
was  still  running. 


€6 


FIRST  AND  REARMOST 


67 


In  fact,  I have  been  told  that  infants  have  an  instinctive  fear  of 
falling,  and  that  this  arose  out  of  the  survival  value  of  having  sucdi  an 
instinctive  fear  during  the  tree-living  eons  of  our  simian  ancestry. 

We  can  say,  then,  that  gravitational  force  is  the  first  force  vi'ith 
which  eafih  individual  human  being  comes  in  contact.  Nor  can  we 
ever  manage  to  forget  its  existence,  since  it  must  be  battled  at  every 
step*  breath  and  heartbeat. 

It  is  also  comforting  that  this  mighty  and  overwhelming  force  pro- 
tects us  at  all  times.  It  holds  us  to  our  planet  and  doesn’t  allow  us  to 
spin  into  space.  It  holds  our  air  and  water  to  the  planet  too,  for  our 
perpetual  use.  And  it  holds  the  earth  itself  firmly  in  its  orbit  about 
the  sun,  so  that  we  always  get  the  light  and  warmth  we  need. 

What  with  all  this,  it  generally  comes  as  a rather  surprising  shock 
to  many  people  to  learn  that  gravitation  is  not  the  strongest  force  in 
th^  universe,  Suppose,  for  instance,  we  compare  it  with  the  electro- 
magnetic force  that  allows  a magnet  to  attract  iron  or  a proton  to 
attract  an  electron.  (The  electromagnetic  force  also  exhibits  repulsion, 
which  gravitational  force  does  not,  but  that  is  a detail  that  need  not 
distress  us  at  this  moment. ) 

How  can  vye  go  about  comparing  the  relative  strengths  of  the  elec- 
tromagnetic force  and  the  gravitational  force? 

Let's  begin  by  considering  two  objects  alone  in  the  universe.  The 
gravitational  force  between  them,  as  was  discovered  by  Newton  (see 
CATCHING  UP  WITH  NEWTON,  F & SF,  December  1958)  can  be 
e?y3ressed  by  the  following  equation: 

(Equation  1 ) ^ 

where  is  the  gravitational  force  between  the  objects;  m is  the  mass  of 
one  object;  m'  the  mass  of  the  other;  A the  distance  between  them;  and 
G a universal  "gravitational  constant.” 

We  must  be  careful  about  our  units  of  measurement.  If  we  measure 
mass  in  grams,  distance  in  centimeters,  and  G in  somewhat  more  com- 
plicated units,  we  will  end  up  by  determining  the  gravitational  force 
in  something  called  “dynes.”  (Before  I’m  through,  the  dynes  will  cancel 
out,  so  we  need  not,  for  present  purposes,  consider  the  dyne  anything 
more  than  a one-syllable  noise. ) 

Now  let’s  get  to  work.  The  value  of  G is  fixed  (as  far  as  we  know) 
everywhere  in  the  universe.  Its  value  in  the  units  I am  using  is  6.67 
X 10’®.  If  you  prefer  long  zero-riddled  decimals  to  exponential  figures, 
you  can  express  G as  0.0000000667. 


FANTASY  AN»  SCFEPfCE  riCTPOfT 


6a 

Le^s  saj^foss,  next,  that  we  are  GOfisidering  two  objects  of  identical 
This  means  that  m — nt"  so  that  ww'  beccmaes  mm,  or  m’.  Further- 
more, let’s  suppose- the  particles  to  be  exactly  1 centimeter  apart,  center 
te  center.  In  t^t  ease  d = 1,  and  d*  = I also.  Therefore,  Equation  1 
simplifies  to  the  following : 

Fe  = 0.0000000667  m*  CEquation  2") 

We  can  now  proceed  to  the  ekctroniagnetic  fcwce,:  which  we  can 
SfinboUze  as  F»,  .. 

Exactly  one  hundred  years  after  Newton  worked  out  the  equation, 
£oi  gravitatioBal  forces,  the  French  physicist,  Charfes  Augustin  de 
Coulomb  (173.6-1806)  was  able  to  show  that  a very  similar  equation 
c»uld  be  used  to  determine  the  electroma^etic  force  between  two-  efec- 
trically  charged  objects. 

Let  us  suppcKe,  then,  that  the  two  objects  for  which  we  have  b^n 
trying  to  c«dculate  gravitational  forces,  also  carry  electric  charges,  so 
tb^t  they  also  ^perience  an  electromagnetic  force.  In  order  to  make 
sure  that  the  elcctiomagnetic  fe^ce  is  an  attracting  one  and  is  there- 
fore directly  comparable  to  the  gravitational  force,  let  us  suppose  that 
one  ob^ct  carries  a positive  electric  charge  and  the  oti^  a negative 
electric  charge.  (The  principle  would  ranain  even  if  we  used  hke 
electric  charges  and  measured  the  force  of  electromagnetic  repulsion, 
but  why  introduce  distractions  3 ) 

According  to  Coulomb,  the  electromagnetic  force  brtween  the  two 
objects  would  be  expressed  by  the  following  equation: 

~ (Equation  3) 

where  q is  the  charge  on  one  (^ject,  q'  on  the  other  and  d is  the  chslance 
between  diem. 

If  we  let  distance  be  measured  in  eenttmeters  and  electric  charge  iH' 
imite  called  “eleetrostatic  units”  (usually  ^jbreviated  “esu”),  it  is  not 
necessary  to  inmrt  a term  analogoiK  t&  the  gravitatkmal  eon^ant,  pru^ 
vided  the  ol^ects  ai^  sep^ated  by  a vacuum.  And,  course,  since  1 
started  by  assuming  the  objects  were  alone  in  the  universe,  drere  fiF 
n^essarily  a vacimm  between  them. 

Furthermore,  if  we  use  the  units  just  mentioned,  the  value  of  tlm 
electrcnnagi^ic  force  will  come  out  in  dynes. 

But  , let's  anqidify  mattcEs  by  su^f^siiig  that  poritive  dectfk 
charge  OQicmeob^eclk  exactly  equal  to  the  negative  dectrk  ^arge  on  the 


FIRST  AND  BfEARMOST 


69 


other  object  so  that  q = q**,  which  means  that  qq'  zn  qq  = q>.  Again, 
we  can  allow  the  objects  to  be  separated  by  just  one  centimeter,  center 
to  center,  so  that  d*  = .1,  Consequently*  Equation  3 becomes: 

F.  (Equation  4) 

Let's  summarize.  We  have  two  objects,  separated  by  one  centimeter, 
center  to  center,  each  object  possessing  identical  charge  (positive.  In 
one  case,  and  negative  in  the  other)  and  identical  mass  (no  qualifica- 
tions). There  is  both  a gravitational  and  an  electromagnetic  attraction 
between  them. 

The  next  problem  is  to  determine  how  much  stronger  the  electro- 
magnetic force  is  than  the  gravitational  force  (or  how  much  weaker, 
if  that  is  how  it  turns  out).  To  do  this,  we  must  determine  the  ratio 
of  the  forces,  by  dividing  (let  us  say)  Equation  4 by  Equation  2. 
The  result  is : 


F« 

FT  ~ 070000000667  in“  (Equation  5> 

A decimal  is  an  inconvenient  thing  to  have  in  a denominator,  but 
we  can  move  it  up  into  the  numerator  by  taking  its  reciprocal  (that 
is,  by  dividing  it  into  1).  Since  1 divided  by  0.0000000667  is  equal 
to  1 .5  X lOL  or  1 5,000,000,  we  can  rewrite  Equation  5 as: 


F.  1 5,000,000  q2 
F,  *“  m2 


(Equation  6) 


or , still  more  simply,  as  t 
F„ 

-g- = 1 5,000,000  (q/m)2  (Equation  7) 

r. 

Since  both  F,  and  F,  are  measured  in  dynes,  then  in  taking  the 
ratio,  we  find  we  are  dividing  dynes  by  dynes.  The  units,  therefore, 
cancel  out,  and  we  are  left  with  a “pure  number."  We  are  going  to  find, 
in  other  words,  that  one  force  is  stronger  than  the  other  by  a fixed 
amount;  an  amount  that  will  be  the  same  whatever  units  we  use  or 
whatever  units  an  intelligent  entity  on  the  fifth  planet  of  the  star 
Fomalhaut  wants  to  use.  We  will  have,  therefore,  a universal  constant. 

* We  could  make  one  of  them  negative  to  allow  for  the  fact  that  one  object  car- 
ries a negative  electric  charge.  Then  we  could  say  that  a negative  value  for  ike 
electromagnetic  force  implies  an  attraction  and  a positive  value  a repulsion.  How- 
ever, for  our  purposes,  none  of  this  folderol  is  needed.  Since  electromagnetic  at- 
traction  and  repulsion  are  hut  opposite  manifestations  of  the  same  phenomenon, 
we  shall  ignore  signs. 


70 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FlCTlOSN 


In  ordet  to  ^etenmne  the  of  the  two  f(»rces,  we  see  from  Bquft' 
tio»'  7 that  we  imist  first  ^termine  the  value  of  q/m;  that  is,  the  cha^ 
of  an  object  divided  by  its  mass.  Let’s  ccmsider  charge  first.  ' 

, All  objects  are  made  up  of  subatomic  particles  of  a number  of  varie- 
fes.  These  particles  fall  into  exactly  three  classes,  however,  with  re- 
Sfeecttoefectrki  charge: 

1)  Class  A are  those  particles  which,  like  the  neutron  and  the 
neoUino,  have  ekx  charge  at  alL  Their  charge  is  0 . 

, 2)  Oass  B are  those  particles  which,  like  the  proton  and  the  posh 
tron  carry  a positive  electric  charge.  But  all  particles  which  carry  a 
pc^tive  dcctric  charge  invariably  carry  the  same  quantity  of  positive 
e6a:tric  charge  whatever  their  differences  in  other  respects  (at  le^ 
^ far  as  we  know^  - Theix  charge  can  therefore  be  specified  as  + 1 • 

3)  Class  C are  those  particles  which,  like  the  electron  and  the 
anti-proton,  carry  a negative  electric  charge.  Again,  this  charge  is  always 
the  same  in  quantity.  Their  charge  is  — 1. 

You  see,  then,  that  an  object  of  any  size  can  have  a net  electric 
charge  of  zero,  provided  it  happens  to  be  made  up  of  neutral  particles 
and/ or  equal  numbers  of  positive  and  negative  particles. 

Forsuch  an  object  q = 0,,  and  no  matter  how  large  its  mass,  the  value 
of  q/nt  is  also  zero.  For  svrch  bodies,  Equation  7 tells  us,  F./F,  is  zero. 
The  gravitatic»al  force  never  zero  (as  long  as  the  objects  have  any 
mass  at  all), and  it  is,  unto  the^  conditions,  infinitely  stronger  than 
the  efectromagnetic  force  and  need  be  the  only  one  considered. 

This  is  just  about  the  case  for  actual  bodies.  The  overall  net  charge 
of  the  earth  and  the  sun  is  virtually  zero  and  tn  plotting  the  eatrlVs 
orbit,  it  is  only  necessary  to  consider  the  gavitational  attraction  be- 
tween the  twpbodies. 

Still,  the  case  where  F,  = 0 and,  therefore,  F«/F,  = 0 is  clearly 
only  one  extreme  of  the  situation  ami  not  a particularly  interesting 
ane.  What  about  the  other  extreme?  Instead  of  an  object  with  no 
ehargej  what  about  an  objeci  with  maximum  charge. 

If  we  are  going  to  make  charge  maximum,  let’s  first  eliminate  neutral 
particles,  which  add  mass  without  charge.  Let’s  suppose,  instead,  ffiat 
we  have  a piece  of  matter  composed  exclusively  of  charged  particles. 
Naturally,  it  is  no  use  to  include  charged  particles  of  both  varieties, 
since  then  one  type  of  charge  would  cancel  die  other  and  total  charge 
would  be  less  than  maximum. 

We  will  want  one  object  then,  comjrosed  exclusively  of  positively- 
charged  particles  and.  the  other  exclu^vely  of  negatively-charged  par- 
ticles . We  can’t  possibly  do  better  than  that  as  a general  difeig. 


FIRST  AND  REARMOST  71 

And  yet  while  all  the  charged  partteles  have  identical  charges  of 
either  + 1 or  — 1,  as  the  case  may  be,  dliey  possess  different  masses. 
What  we  want  are  charged  particles  of  the  smallest  possible  mass.  In 
that  case,  the  largest  possible  individual  charge  is  hung  upon  flie 
smallest  possible  mass  and  the  ratio  q/m  is  at  a maximum, 
y It  so  happens  that  the  negatively  charged  particle  of  smallest  mass 
is  the  electron  and  the  positively  charged  particle  of  smallest  mass  is 
the  positron.  For  those  bodies,  the  ratio  q/m  is  greater  than  for  any 
other  known  object.  (Nor  have  we  any  reason,  as  yet,  for  suspecting 
that  any  object  of  higher  q/m  remains  to  be  discovered.) 

Suppose,  then,  we  start  with  two  bodies,  one  of  which  contains  a 
certain  number  of  electrons  and  the  other  the  same  number  of  posi- 
trons. There  will  be  a certain  electromagnetic  force  between  them  and 
also  a certain  gravitational  force. 

If  you  triple  the  number  of  electrons  in  the  first  body  and  triple  the 
number  of  positrons  in  the  other,  the  total  charge  triples  for  each  body 
and  the  total  electromagnetic  force,  therefore,  becomes  3 times  3,  or 
9 times  greater.  However,  the  total  mass  also  triples  for  each  body  and 
the  total  gravitational  force  also  becomes  3 times  3,  or  9 times  greater. 
While  each  force  increases,  they  do  so  to  an  equal  extent,  and  the 
ratio  of  the  two  remains  the  same. 

In  fact  the  ratio  of  the  two  forces  remains  the  same,  even  if  the 
charge  and/or  mass  on  one  body  is  not  equal  to  the  charge  and/ot 
mass  on  the  other;  or  if  the  charge  and/or  mass  of  one  body  is  changed  by 
an  amount  different  from  the  change  in  the  other. 

Since  we  are  concerned  only  with  the  ratio  of  the  two  fprces,  the 
electromagnetic  and  the  gravitational,  and  since  this  remains  the  same, 
however  much  the  number  of  electrons  in  one  body  and  the  number 
of  positrons  in  the  other  are  changed,  why  bother  with  any  but  the 
simplest  possible  number — one? 

In  other  words,  let’s  consider  a single  electron  and  a single  positron 
separated  by  exactly  1 centimeter.  This  system  will  give  us  the  maxi- 
mum value  for  the  ratio  of  electromagnetic  force  to  gravitational  force. 

It  so  happens  that  the  electron  and  the  positron  have  equal  masses. 
That  mass,  in  grams  (which  are  the  mass-units  we  are  using  in  this 
calculation)  is  9.1  x 10-2®  or,  if  you  prefer,  0.0000000000000000- 
000000000009!. 

The  electric  charge  of  the  electron  is  equal  to  that  of  the  positron 
(though  different  in  sign).  In  electrostatic  units  (the  charge-units 
being  used  in  this  calculation),  the  value  is  4.8  x 10'^®,  or, 
0.00000000048. 


72 


FANTASY  AN»  SCIENCB  FICTIOW 


Ts  get  dte  'vakBS  q/m  foir  te  ekctsoa  Cor  postroa>  w&  HHist 
dmde  ^edbas^  tfeem^.  I£  we- divide  4.8  x 10  *°  by  9.1  x 10**®, 
we  get  dae  aBCTFef-S  ..3:  X 0^  530, 000,000, 000,000,000. 

as  E^purtioQ  7 as^  we  must  squbare  the  ratio  q/m.>  We  midli- 
ply  5.3  X 10*^  by  itself  and  obt^nfwC^/^  y ^ the  value  of  2.8  x 10^®,  <»». 
ie#^OQe»,,0<>Qv.OOO,0€l©vOOCKOGO  ,000 ,000,000,000- 

cBBs^teng  E^s^ion  7,  we  fuid  we  must  multiply  this  num- 
bit  by  £5,.O0O,O0%  snA  ti!ien  we  fiimEy  have  the  ratio  we  are  looking 
fcr.  Canrymg  this  msdti^ieation  ^vesis  4.2  x lO^^  4,200,: 

000^000,000, OOOi,(KKl,OQO,.&00,000,000, 000,000, 000,000, 

We  garp  rMFiy  t&  dice  conckision,  then,  that  the  electromagnetic 
ffii«ee.  is^  uafer  the  raiost  favorable  coaditions,  over  four  million  triUto 
txi^ioii  InMfiOSi  tiaisss  as  sirosg  as  the  ^avitational  force. 

To  be  sure,  under  normal  conditions  there  are  no  electron/positron 
sjsst&ms  » omr  a^rounclmgs  for  positions  virtually  do  not  exist.  In- 
slead  QUB  universe  Cas  fm:  as  we  know)  is  held  together  electromag' 
ractically  by  e&cticm/^oten  attractiems.  The  proton  is  1836  times  «. 
massive  as  eliectrcar  str  that  die  gravitational  attraction  is  increased 
wl£bo«]i  a coBcmmhaitt  increase  in  e^ctromagnetic  attraction.  In  this 
ci^  die  ratis^  F«/T^b.  is  e»dy  2.3  x 10^*^^.  If  the  most  massive  known 
charged  particles  are  used:  a positive  xi-particle  and  a negative  xi^ 
IXKtdcle,  Ae  sinks  farther  to  6.3  x 10®®,  which  is  still  alm<»t  a 
tx^kiora  triUtoB  trilHon. 

There  are  two  other  major  forces  in  the  physical  world.  There  is  &e 
nuclear  strong  interaction  force  which  is  over  a hundred  times  as  strong 
as  even  the  f^ectromagnetic  force;  and  the  nuclear  weak  interaction 
fcttce,.  which  is  oDnsi^rably  wealcer  than  the  electromagnetic  force. 
AB  three,  however,  are  far,  far  stronger  than  the  gravitational  force. 

In  fact,  the  force  of  gravity — thou^  it  is  the  first  force  with  vi?hich 
we  are  acquainted,  and  though  it  is  always  with  us,  and  though  it  is 
the  erne  with  a strength  we  most  thoroughly  ai^reeiate — is  hy  far  the 
i^&akestknoven  fcrcem  nature.  It  is  first  and  rearmost! 

What  makes  die  gravitational  fm*ee  seem  so  strong? 

Fir^,  the  two.  nuckar  forces  are  short-range  forces  which  make  them- 
selves feh  over  distances  abcmt  the  width  of  an  atomic  nucletis,. 
The  electromagnetic  force  and  the  gravitational  force  are  die  only  two 
Long-range  forces..  Of  these,  the  etectrcrmagnetic  force  cancels  itself 
ocrl  and  temporary  local  exceptions)  became  bc^h  an  at- 

traction  and  arepulsion  exist. 

This  leaves  gravitational  force  alone  in  the  field. 


FIKST  AND  REARMOST 


73 


What’s  more,  the  most  conspicuous  bodies  in  the  universe  ha]^n  to 
he  congl(»nerations  of  vast  mass,  and  we  live  on  the  surface  of  one  of 
these  conglomerations . 

Even  so,  there  are  hints  that  give  away  the  real  weakness  of  gravita- 
tional force.  Your  weak  muscle  can  lift  a fifty-pound  weight  with  the 
whole  mass  of  the  earth  pulling,  gravitationally,  in  the  other  direction. 
A toy  magnet  will  lift  a pin  against  the  entire  counter-pull  of  the 
earth. 

Oh,  gravity  is  weak  all  right.  We  can  dramatize  that  weakness  further. 

Suppose  that  the  earth  were  an  assemblage  of  nothing  but  its  mass  in 
positrons,  while  the  sun  were  an  assemblage  of  nothing  but  its  mass  in 
electrons.  The  force  of  attraction  between  them  would  be  vastly  greater 
than  the  feeble  gravitational  force  that  holds  them  together  now.  In 
fact,  in  order  to  reduce  the  electromagnetic  attraction  to  no  more  th^n 
the  present  gravitational  one,  the  earth  and  sun  would  have  to  be  sepa- 
rated by  some  33,000,000,000,000,000  light  years  or  about  five  mij- 
lion  times  the  diameter  of  the  known  universe. 

Or  suppose  you  imagined  in  the  place  of  the  sun  half  a billionth  of  a 
gram  of  electrons  CO. 0000000005  grams).  This  makes  up  a mass  too 
small  to  see  and  is,  indeed,  only  about  a quarter  the  mass  of  an  average 
liver  cell.*  And  in  the  place  of  the  earth,  imagine  one  and  a half 
quintillionths  of  a gram  of  positrons  (0.0000000000000015  grams). 
It  would  take  an  electron  microscope  to  see  such  a mass,  but  it  would 
still  contain  1,600,000,000,000  positrons. 

The  electromagnetic  attraction  between  these  two  insignificant 
masses,  separated  by  the  distance  from  the  earth  to  the  sun,  would  be 
equal  to  the  gravitational  attraction  between  the  colossal  masses  of 
those  two  bodies  right  now. 

In  fact,  if  one  could  scatter  half  a billionth  of  a gram  of  electrons 
on  the  sun,  and  one  and  a half  quintillionths  of  a gram  of  positrons 
on  the  eardi,  you  would  double  the  sun’s  attraction  for  the  earth  and 
alter  the  nature  of  its  orbit  considerably.  And  if  you  made  it  electrons, 
both  on  sun  and  earth,  so  as  to  introduce  a repulsion,  you  would  cancel 
the  gravitational  attraction  altogether  and  send  old  earth  on  its  way 
out  of  the  Solar  system. 

Of  course,  all  this  is  just  paper  calculation.  The  mere  fact  that  elec- 
tromagnetic forces  are  as  strong  as  they  are  means  that  you  cannot 
collect  a significant  number  of  like-charged  particles  in  one  place.  They 
would  repel  each  other  too  strongly. 

* Nevertheless,  it  must  not  he  despised  entirely,  for  such  a mass  contains  55,000,- 
000,000,000,000,000  electroni. 


74 


FANTASY  «Ca£XICE. 


S^piiase  y&o  di^4^d  tke  siit  kite»  matbk-sized  fragments  and 
sjd!e«^  tdieuft  due  s^sfeem  aft  xnutmt  rest.  Co>^  yoa»  hf 

some  man-made  device  keep  those  fragments  from  falling  tog^iiCT  \mr 
dte  pulk  ^ gravity?  Well,  d»is  is  not  a greater  task  than  draft  of 
g^irog  kioldl  @f  half  a hiHionth  of  a ^am  of  electrons  and  squeezh^ 
together  into  a ball^ 

The  same  would  hc^  true  if  you  trkd  te  separate  a sizable  quantity 
of  positive  charge  from  a sizable  quantity  of  negative  charge — and  by 
slzabW  I m£sm‘  a quantity  large-  esKmgh:  to  be  visible  under  an 

electreit  naicroscope- 

If  ^ universe  weee  composed  of  electrons  and  positrons  as  the 
chief  charged  particles,  the  electromagnetic  force  wouM  make  it  neccs- 
ssay  foe  them  to  coiae  toggthei.  Since  they  arc  anti-particles,,  one  being 
the  lU'eel-se  reverse  of  each  other,  they  would  melt  together,  cwcel  each 
Oth^,  and  goup  mone  cosmic  flare  of  gamma  rays, 

.FortunaCely,  the  universe  is  compowd  of  electrons  and  protons  ro 
the  chief  charged  particles.  Thau^  their  charges  are  exact  opprasit^ 
C — 1 fca  the  fpriuCT  and  -4-1  the  latter^  this  is  not  so  of  other 
properties;  such  mass,  for  Instance.  Electrons  and  ptotoms  are  itat 
anti-^artkd^  in  otl^r  wcHrds,  and  cannot  cancel  each  other. 

Their  e^odte  charges,  however,  set  up  a strong  mutual  attracticm 
that  cannot,  within  limits,  be  gainsaid.  An  electron  and  a proton 
therefore  approach  closely  and  then  maintain  themselves  at  a wary 
distance,  forming  the  hydrogen  atom. 

Individual  protons  can  clirtg  together  despite  electromagnetic  re- 
{mlskm  because  of  the  existence  of  the  nuckar  strong  mter^itm.  force 
that  sets  up  m atfecacthm  between  protons  that  are  very  close  together 
that  far  overbalances  the  electromagnetic  repulskm.  This  makes  atcuns 
other  hydrogen  possible. 

Ilk  short:  ikiidear  forces  dominate  the  atomic  nucleus;:  ekctrcmag- 
netic  forces  dominato  tte  atom;  itself;  and  gravitational  forces  dom- 
inate the  large  astronomic  bodies . 

The  weakness  of  the  gravitational  fmree  is  a source  of  frustration'  to 
physicists. 

The  different  forces,  you  see,  make  themselves  felt  by  transfers 
particles.  The  nuclear  strong  interaction  foroe,  the  strongest  of  all, 
makes  itself  evident  by  transfers  of  pious,  while  the  electroimgnetic 
force  Cnext  strongest^  does  it  by  the  tranisfer  photcms.  An  analogous 
particle  involved  in  weak  interactions  Cthkd  strongest)  has  just  been 
reported  a few  months  ago.  It  is  called  the  “w  particle”  and  as  yet  the 
reportis  a tentative  one. 


FIRST  AND  REARMOST 


75 


So  far,  so  good.  It  seems,  then,  tiiat  if  graviation  is  a force  in  the 
same  seme  that  the  others  are,  it  should  make  itself  evident  by  transfers 
of  particles. 

Physicists  have  given  this  particle  a name,  the  *graviton.’*  They  have 
even  decided  on  its  properties,  or  bck  of  J^peities.  It  is  electrically 
neutral  and  without  mass.  (Because  it  is  without  mass,  it  must  travel 
at  an  unvarying  velocity,  that  of  light.}  It  is  stable,  tCM>;  that  is,  left  to 
itself,  it  will  not  break  down  to  form  other  particles. 

So  far,  it  is  rather  like  the  neutrino,  which  is  also  stable,  dectrically 
neutral  and  massless  (hence  travelling  at  the  velocity  of  light}. 

The  graviton  and  the  neutrino  differ  in  some  respects,  however.  The 
neutrino  comes  in  two  varieties,  an  electron  neutrino  and  a muon 
neutrino,  each  with  its  anti-particle;  so  there  are,  ail-told,  fot»  dis- 
tinct kinds  of  neutrinoes.  The  graviton  comes  in  but  one  variety  and 
is  its  own  anti-particle.  There  is  but  one  kind  of  graviton. 

Then,  too,  the  graviton  has  a spin  of  a t3.'pe  dsdt  is  assigned  the 
number  2,  while  the  neutrino  along  with  most  other  subatomic  parti- 
cles have  spins  of  Vz . (There  are  also  some  mesons  with  a spin  of  0 
and  the  photon  with  a spin  of  1 . ) 

The  graviton  has  not  yet  been  detected.  It  is  even  more  elusive  than 
the  neutrino.  The  neutrino,  while  massless  and  chaxgeless,'  neverthe- 
less has  a measurable  energy  content.  Its  existence  was  hrst  suspected, 
indeed,  because  it  carried  off  enough  energy  to  make  a sizable  gap  in 
the  bookkeeping. 

But  gravitons? 

Well,  remember  that  factor  1 0^®. 

An  individual  graviton  must  be  trillions  of  trillions  of  trillions  of 
times  less  energetic  than  a neutrino.  Considering  how  difficult  it  was  to 
detect  the  neutrino,  the  detection  of  the  graviton  is  a problem  that  will 
really  test  the  nuclear  physicist. 

However,  all  hope  is  not  necessarily  gone.  After  centuries  of  hi- 
tensive  studies  of  the  sky,  astronomers — within  the  past  year — have 
discovered  not  one,  but  two,  kinds  of  wholly  novel  and  unexpected 
cosmic  bodies;  bodies  in  which  gravity  plays  an  unexpectedly  huge 
f(^.  Study  of  these  bodies  may  tell  us  a lot  more  about  gravity  than 
we  could  have  hoped  for  as  little  as  a year  or  two  ago. 

But  I can’t  discuss  that  now,  not  in  this  article  at  least.  Instead,  I 
will  leave  you  with  the  two  most  fashionable  words  in  this  ye^S 
astronomy,  “quasars”  and  “x-ray  stars.” 

In  the  complete  tradition  of  the  cliff-hanger,  I will  only  say  that  in 
some  ftiture  column,  I will  explain — 


It  was  held,  once  upon  a time,  that  slaves  became  free  men  the  mO' 
meM  diey  set  foot  on  free  soil:  “They  touch  our  shores  and  their 
shackles  fall  . . the  poet  lorote.,  That  some  transformation,  not 
utterly  dissimilar,  can  occur  in  the  Age  of  Space,  is  the  burden  of 
this  brief  sto^  here  ...  concerning  its  author,  we  can  at  this 
moment  tell  you  only  that  he  lives  in  San  Diego,  California,  and 
that  we  hope  to  have  him  with  us  again. 


THE  YEAR  OF  THE  EARTHMAN 


by  Hogan  Smith 


He  LAY;  STILL  IN  THE  DARKNESS, 
waiting.  The  room  had  been  pre- 
pared as  a place  for  him  to  die.  He 
was  grateful  to  his  friends  for  the 
privacy. 

There  wasn’t  much  time  left,  so 
he  remembered  the  day  again.  He 
couldn’t  start  in  the  morning  and 
remember  the  entire  day,  step  by 
step.  He  had  planned  to  do  it  that 
way  and  he  had  tried  to  remember 
it  the  way  it  had  happened,  but  he 
could  remember  it  only  in  pieces, 
like  sections  of  time  cut  off  and 
floated  past  his  mind. 

He  remembered  being  on  the 
beach  and  smelling  an  autumn 
breeze  that  carried  the  sharp  moist 
smell  .of  the  sea.  He  could  remem- 
ber that.  Then  he  fell  asleep  with 
the  gentle  sun  warm  on  his  skin. 


There  was  a part  of  him  that 
never  slept.  After  a while  that  part 
of  him  heard  a sound  and  it  awak- 
ened the  rest  of  him  so  he  could  sit 
up  and  listen  and  know  what  the 
sound  was. 

When  he  heard  the  sound  again 
he  relaxed.  It  was  no  more  dian 
the  slip-slap  of  a boy’s,  bare  feet 
against  a wet  sandy  path.  He  had 
heard  the  sound  many  times  be- 
fore. 

“Earthman,”  the  boy  said.  He 
stopped  in  front  of  the  spacer. 

The  spacer  looked  and  the  boy 
was  hazy  and  he  had  to  move  his 
head  and  refocus  his  eyes  in  order 
to  see  the  boy.  The  reason  was  sim- 
ple enough.  Heavy  primaries  had 
blasted  through  his  retinas,  form- 
ing scars  where  there  was  no  sight. 


76 


The  YE-W  of  the  BARtHiWAIf: 

Hfrfound  a place  in  his  eyes  where 
he;  could  see  and  he  looked  at  tibe 

M- 

"Jed,  son  (rf  Jed  who  lives  by  the 
sea,”  the  spacer  said.  In  doing  so 
he  acknowledged  the  boy  and  gave 
him  permission  to  speak. 

"Earthman,  my  father  speaks 
you  well  and  says  that  I speak  to 
you  saying  it  is  mealtime  and  you 
are  bid  to  sharc  our  food  and  our 
shelter.”  He  was  a sturdy  boy, 
handsome  and  well  put  together. 
His  skin  was  brown.  His  hair  was 
pure  v^te.  His  eyes  were  typical 
of  his  people,  swirling  slits  of  ir- 
ridescent  purple. 

“I  am  proud,”  the  spacer  said. 
"Speak  to  your  father  and  say  he 
honors  me,  even  as  his  son  honors 
him.”  The  ritual  was  a daily  one, 
lending  an  air  of  social  grace  to  an 
otherwise  unsophisticated  culture. 

The  boy  nodded  gravely,  well 
pdeased  at  the  spacer’s  words.  “I 
will  speak  to  my  father.” 

The  man  stood  and  brushed  the 
sand  from  his  clothes,  then  the  two 
of  them  started  the  mile  walk  to 
the  house  on  the  hill. 

After  the  |wop>er  interval  of  si- 
lence the  boy  said,.  "What  is  it  like 
on  your  world  ?” 

"It  is  much  as  it  is  here.  Your 
pdanet  is  larger  than  mine,  yet  it  is 
much  the  same.” 

"Pik,  son  of  Pik  who  makes 
shoes,  says  your  world  is  so  crowd- 
ed the  people  must  live ‘together  in 
thick  buildings.” 

"It  is  true.  Still  not  all  of  us  live 


77 

in  such^  buikimgs.  Stune  live  in  pnd' 

vate  homes,  as  yon  do.” 

"Pik,  who  makes  shoes,  said  to 
his  son  you  have  been  in  the  serv- 
ice of  your  people  fora  long  time.” 

"Yes,”  the  ^lacer  said  simply.  “A 
long  time.”  He  turned  inside  him- 
self, ignoring  the  boy. 

How  tong  was  long?  How  king 
had  he  rammed  through  deep  space 
doing  the  bu^ness  of  earth?  How 
long  had  he  waited  in  the  wards 
while  they  mended  the  broken  part 
of  him?  And  how  long  had  he  rid- 
d^  alone  and  sometimes  afraid, 
leaving  specks  and  flecks  of  him- 
self behind  while  heavy  primaries 
slammed  through  his  bc^y  day  aft- 
er day  after  day.  How  long  was 
long?  He  couldn’t  remember. 

Long  was  Ic^g  enough  to  get 
from  here  to  there,  he  sup^sed, 
and  not  much  difference  between 
the  beginning  and  the  end. 

"I  have  been  told  not  to  speak  of 
this,”  the  boy  said.  “Yes,  there  is 
much  I would  like  to  know.'* 

The  spacet  looked  down  at  the 
boy  and  smiled. 

"Speak  and  none  will  know  but 
us.” 

“Jed,  who  is  my  father,  says  you 
have  served  your  people  well,  even 
fought  in  their  wars.*' 

“It  is  true.'* 

The  boy  paused,  collecting 
around  him  the  words  he  wanted. 
“By  your  time,  today  is  the  end  of 
the  third  cycle  simre  you  Mve 
come  to  our  world.*’ 

“Yes.* 


78 

""When  this  day  is  ended  ywi 
have  said  you  will  die.” 

"Yes/' 

"Why  is  that  so?" 

"It  is  the  way  of  my  people,” 
the  spacer  said  quietly. 

"They  will  come  here  and  kill 
you?” 

“There  is  a device  inside  me 
that  cannot  be  removed.  When  the 
tone  cmnes,  it  will  destroy  me.  ” 
"You  have  never  misplaced  toe 
trustof  your  people?” 

“No.  Not  until  I came  here  to 
remain  and  marry  she  who  is  your 
sister.” 

"Pik,  son  of  Pik  who  makes 
shoes,  says  you  have  much  wealth.” 

- "Star  pilots  are  well  paid.”  The 
spacer  shifted  and  refocused  his 
eyes  so  he  could  see  the  path. 

'Why  is  it  so  that  you  must  die?” 
The  man  hesitated  so  long  the 
boy  was  afraid  he  was  offended 
and  would  not  answer. 

"When  spacers  first  went  out 
from  the  world  they  sometimes  l^t 
toe  business  of  the  earth  and  wOTt 
about  their  own  business.  Some  of 
them  caused  much  harm  to  earth 
doing  this  and  many  harsh  restric- 
tions were  placed  on  spacers.  When 
these  rules  grew  too  burdensome, 
men  became  unwilling  to  spend 
their  lives  in  space. 

"There  came  a time  of  no  space 
travel  from  my  world.  Those  times 
were  before  I was,  I cannot  say 
when  space  travel  began  again.  I 
was  a baby  when  it  changed.  I 
grew  up  knowing  I would  be  a star 


PANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

pilot.  There  were  many  of  us.  We 
went  to  special  schools  frorn  toe 
first.  We  are  paid  much  money  to 
be  star  pilots,  but  it  is  of  no  use 
to  us  in  space  so  it  is  put  in  a bank 
for  us  on  earth.  When  we  retire  it- 
is  ours.  When  I am  dead  the  mon- 
ey win  belong  to  she  who  is  my 
wife.” 

“But  why  must  you  die?” 

“It  is  a means  of  control.  Space 
pilots  must  report  to  certain  places 
every  three  cycles  so  the  earth  lead- 
ers can  be  sure  we  are  doing  \vhat 
we  should  be  doing.  If  we  do  not 
report  at  the  proper  place  at  the 
proper  time  the  device  inside  us 
will  destroy  us.” 

“I  do  not  think  it  just,”  the  boy 
said  soberly. 

"When  I was  young  and  wanted 
wealth  and  wanted  to  be  a star  pi- 
lot I thought  it  was  just.’’ 

“But  you  do  not  think  so  now?” 

“I  do  not  think  it  is  the  only 
way.” 

“Did  you  decide  to  become  a 
space  pilot  when  you  were  a boy 
like  me?” 

“I  do  not  remember  when  I de- 
cided. I always  knew  I would  be 
a space  pilot." 

“Are  you  afraid?”  The  boy  was 
artless. 

"Yes,”  toe  spacer  said.  “I  am 
afraid.”  ^ 

“Is  there  an  again-of-you  on  an- 
other world?” 

“No.” 

“Do  you  desire  an  again-of-you 
very  muoh?” 


THE  WE  OF  THB  BARTHMAK 


79 


•The  spacer  stopped  walking  and 
looked  out  over  the  sea>  smelled  the 
wet  salt  air  and  watched  the  sun 
start  its  drop  to  the  other  side 
the  planet. 

*‘Yes,"  the  spacer  said.  “More 
than  all  of  the  other  things  there 
are  for  a man  to  want/* 

The  boy  bowed  to  the  sun  and 
drew  a certain  design  in  the  sand 
with  his  toe. 

"Let  this,  then,  be  the  year  of 
the  earthman/*  the  boy  said  to  the 
sea. 

The  spacer  put  his  hand  on  the 
boy's  shoulder.  "Come,  we  will  be 
late  for  mealtime.” 

They  walked  on  toward  the 
house.  It  was  built  of  stone  and  it 
looked  much  like  earth's  ancient 
castles.  A man,  marked  and  col- 
ored like  the  boy,  stood  in  the  main 
doorway.  He  was  strong  looking,  a 
man  out  of  the  soil  that  fed  him. 

The  spacer  stopped  at  the  door. 
It  was  the  last  time  he  would  pass 
through  the  door  as  a living  being. 

"Earthman,”  the  man  in  the 
doorway  said.  Somehow  he  turned 
the  simple  word  into  a ceremony. 

"Jed,  who  lives  hy  the  sea,  you 
honor  me  with  your  hospitality.” 

“My  home  is  proud  that  you  are 
pleased,”  Jed  said. 

The  spacer  couldn't  remember 
the  next  few  hours.  He  must  have 
greeted  Jed’s  wife.  She  was  the 
mother  of  the  girl  he  married  and 
the  prescribed  greeting  was  rigid. 
He  could  not  remember  doing  it. 
Neither  could  he  remember  his 


izKd  meal,  though  ho  could  re^ 
member  he  had  planned  it  masty 
days  before. 

The  next  section  of  time  he 
could  remember  was  when  he  was 
widi  his  wife,  alone  in  her  room. 
It  was  the  late  part  of  the  evening. 

Pam  was  a beautiful  woman 
and  he  was  proud  of  her,,  glad  of 
the  months  he  had  fed  data  into 
his  ship’s  computers  so  he  could 
find  people  enough  like  humans 
that  interbreeding  was  p>ossibIe. 
Most  of  ail  he  was  proud  that  she 
accepted  him  fm^  a husband. 

They  were  sitting  by  the  fire  in 
their  room  when  she  told  him.  He 
hadn’t  much  time  left  by  then,. but 
she  had  waited  until  they  were 
alone. 

"Earthman,”  she  said  tenderly 
and  she  moved  her  head  from  his 
Moulder  so  she  could  look  into  his 
eyes.  "Earthman,  be  proud.” 

He  could  not  speak.  He  nodded 
and  waited. 

"Your  child  is  in  my  belly, 
Earthman,  alive  and  well.” 

"You  are  sure?”  Har^  wmrds. 
Urgent  intense  words.  "You  are 
sure?” 

"I  saw  Lor,  who  keeps  health.  I 
am  sure.  The  now-of-me  holds  the 
again-of-us.” 

"Sweet  God,  Pam.  There  is  no 
way  to  thank  you.”  It  was  a prayer, 
the  way  his  words  unfurled  from 
his  throat. 

"What  need  to  thank  me  fmr 
what  our  love  has  created  ?” 

He  moved  closer  to  the  fire. 


80 

“I  have  a son/'  he  said,  staring 
into  the  fire. 

'Tooh.  How  do  you  know  it  is 
not  a daughter  I hold?” 

“Whichever,  it  is  of  my  blood,” 
the  spacer  said.  “It  is  of  me.” 

“And  me,”  the  woman  said. 

He  grinned  at  her.  “I  did  not 
mean  to  act  as  though  I were  the 
only  one  needed  to  make  a baby. 
But  I was  in  space  for  a long  time. 
I feared  my  seed  was  dead.  Be- 
fore we  left  earth  they  told  us  we 
had  everything  we  needed  to  make 
■babies  except  the  seed.  Such  was 
the  <mly  difference  between  star  pi- 
lots and  other  men.” 

The  woman  returned  her  head 
to  his  shoulder.  “Your  seed  is  good/' 

said  simply^ 

“It  is  good,”  he  said.  “It  is 
good.”  He  caressed  her  shoulder 
and  that  section  of  time  closed  for 
him  and  it  was  all  of  the  day  he 
could  remember. 

Time  was  such  a small  quick 
thing.  His  last  day  looked  so  ordi- 
nary when  it  came  he  almost  didn’t 
recognize  it.  He  couldn’t  catch  the 
minutes  and  use  them,  the  way  he 
meant  to. 

He  had  told  the  boy  he  was 
afraid.  He  thought  he  was.  Now 
he  was  not  sure.  There  had  been 
times  in  space  when  he  balanced 
his  life  on  the  edge  of  space  and  he 
bad  been  more  afraid  then. 

In  a moment  or  two  he  would  be 
dead.  He  knew  that  beyond  any 
doubt.  Yet  he  had  often  been  more 
afraid  in  space. 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

A feeling  came  to  him  from  out 
of  the,  darkness  and  he  knew  the 
waiting  was  over.  There  was  a 
click  inside,  strange  and  deep 
down,  and  the  force  of  him  was 
turned  off.  One  by  one  the  vital 
parts  of  him  stopped  doing  their 
mysterious  work  of  life, 

“It  is  not  so  much  to  die,”  he 
thought,  and  with  that  thought 
clarity  came,  roaring  and  twisting 
Into  his  mind  so  rudely  he  winced. 
He  could  not  stop  it.  Course  vulgar 
clarity  thrust  directly  into  the 
warm  quiet  place  where  he  was 
biding. 

He  learned  what  the  earth  had 
meant  he  should  never  learn — 
what  he  couldn’t  have  learned,  had 
radiation  not  altered  and  dimin- 
ished the  block  they  had  built  into 
his  mind. 

He  was  not  a man.  He  could 
remember  that  now.  They  had 
taken  tissue  from  a man  and  grown 
it  and  nourished  and  clothed  his 
bones  with  it,  but  he  was  not  a 
man. 

Then  what  was  he,  if  he  wasn’t 
a man?  There  was  a word  for  ev- 
erything, so  what  was  the  word  for 
him? 

Programmed.  That  was  it.  He 
was  a programmed.  No  . . . not 
. . . that.  Programmed  was  some- 
thing man  did  to  him  when  he  was 
first  made. 

Father!  That  was  it.  That  was 
the  word  for  him.  Father.  Because 
he  had  made  a baby  in  his  wife’s 
belly.  No.  Only  man  could  father 


81 


THE  YEAR  OF  THE  EARTHMAN 

a bal^.  They  him  that.  They 
said:  are  exactly  like  man  ex^ 

cept  you  carry  no  seed.” 

Well,  he  carried  seed  now.  He 
made  certain  of  that  before  he  mar- 
ried his  wife.  Hard,  deep  space  ra-? 
diation  had  given  him  sperm,  the 
same  way  it  had  altered  the  men- 
tal block  man  had  put  into  his 
brain. 

He  felt  the  edges  of  himself  turn 
cold  and  he  grinned  at  the  dark- 
ness. It  didn't  matter  what  his 
name  was.  When  his  son  was  born 
they  would  have  to  find  a new 


name  ...  they  wrm^  have  to 
ind  a new  name  . • . find  a 
new  name  ... 

There  was  one  final  click. 


On  earth  a man  at  the  Inter- 
Stellar  Freight  and  Mineral  Com- 
pany noted  that  Charlie  Ahel, 
Model  1500,  Combination  Explor- 
er and  Fighter,  had  ceased  to  ex- 
ist. The  man  did  not  regard  that 
fact  as  particularly  important.  Aft- 
er all,  the  Company  often  lost  ex- 
pensive equipment  in  space. 


ABOUT  THE  COVER 

Three  space  ships  are  passing  the  moon  on  their  way  to  Mars.  Be- 
tween the  crescent  of  reflected  sunlight  on  the  moon  and  the  dark 
crescent  of  that  side  of  the  moon  we  on  earth  never  see,  the  moon  Is 
illuminated  hy  earth  light. 

The  ships  axe  using  the  ion  drive  engine,  which  givea  off  a c^iaracteris- 
tic  blue  glow.  The  engine  has  low  thrust  and  acceleration  with  a very 
high  exhaust  velocity,  so  that  the  ship  reaches  a high  velocity  over  a 
long  period  of  time  and  is  easier  to  control  directionally  than  a chemi- 
cally fueled  rocket. 

The  power  plant  vapwizes  and  ionics  cesium  on  numerous  incandes- 
cent platinum  surfaces  and  provides  high  voltage  to  accelerate  the 
particles  in  a given  direction  to  produce  thrust.  Since  the  ships  are 
travelling  in  a vacuum,  the  excess  heat  must  be  disposed  of  by  large 
radiation  panels,  which  are  heated  to  cherry  red. 

The  ion  drive  engine  generates  its  pow^  from  nuclear  energy. 
Shielding  the  crew  from  nuclear  energy  is  necessary,  and  in  these  ships 
the  radiaticm  fields  are  inside  the  ships,  between  th^  plant  and  the  crew 
quarters. 

The  painting  is  from  beyond  the  soi.ab  system,  paintings  by  Chesley 
Bonestell,  text  by  Willy  Ley,  Viking  Press,  1964. 


If  is  our'&istom,  when  wishing  to  introduce  a story  with  some  jew 
details  about  an  author,  his  works  and  views,  to  hand  our  Mr.  Pet- 
tifogle  a subway  token  and  send  him  in  quest  of  what  we  call  ''bio 
data”~-ijoherefrom  we  winnow  a few  facts  and  fancies,  salient  or 
otherwise.  Mr.  Robert  F.  Young,  author  of  this  story  of  land  and 
sea,  and  love  transmuted  by  a terrible  yet  glorious  change,  pro- 
vided IIS  with  information  of  suck  unexpected  largesse  that  we 
decided  to  throw  precedent  to  the  unnumber  d winds  and  print  U 
in  toto.  Aru/one  concerned  with  either  reading  or  writing  should 
fnd  interest  in  what  he  has  to  say— and  a fig  for  naysayers. 

Looking  back,  I realize  that  Tarzan  of  the  Apes  had  quite  a bit 
to  do  with  my  becoming  a science-fiction  writer.  Through  Tarzan, 
I met  John  Carter,  and  through  John,  I met  Julians  V,  IX,  and 
XX,  Jason  Gridley,  Waldo  Emerson  Smith-Jones,  Bowen  J.  Tyler, 
Jr.,  and  a host  of  other  luminaries  in  the  Burroughs  realm.  This 
was  a long  time  ago;  but  the  fictitious  friends  we  make  in  our 
youth,  hoyeever  absurd  they  may  sometimes  turn  out  to  be  when 
we  revisit  them,  cast  a spell  over  us  that  lingers  down  through  the 
y^ars,  and  it  distresses  me  no  end,  when  I watch  an  old  Tarzan 
movie,  to  see  Johnny  Weismuller  try  to  climb  a tree  or  to  hear  him 
speak  without  benefit  of  the  first  person  singular.  Tarzan  was  noth- 
hig  if  he  was  not  agile,  and  less  than  nothing  if  he  was  not  intelli- 
gent, and  for  him  to  be  demeaned  in  so  flagrant  a . fashion  is  a 
crime  against  Burroughsiana.  A more  recent — and  even  more 
flagrant — crime  was  committed  in  the  name  of  E.R.B.  on  the 
Jack  Benny  program  last  week.  In  a spoof  about  Tarzan  and  Jane, 
Jane  was  given  parents  who  spoke  with  an  English  accent.  Shades 
of  Professor  Archimedes  Q.  Porter!  Everybody  knows  that,  for  all 
her  jungle  lord's  renowned  English  ancestry,  Jane  Porter  was  an 
American  girl.  Sometimes  1 wonder  what  the  world  is  coming  to. 

Rummaging  through  the  shelves  of  the  local  library  long,  long 
ago  (probably  in  search  of  an  as  yet  undiscovered  Mars  or  Tarzan 
book),  I came  upon  a volume  entitled  Men  like  Gods.  A new 
door  was  forthwith  opened,  and  the  light  streaming  through  from 
the  room  beyond  made  the  light  in  the  room  in  which  I stood 
seem  lusterless  indeed.  From  that  moment  on  I began  reading 

82 


IN  WHAT  CAVERN  OP  THE  DEEP 


83 


Wells,  and  even  today  1 go  back  and  read  him  oceasionally.  He . 
does  not  dim  with  time,  and — as  a certain  editor  so  ably  put  it  in  3 
recent  book  review — he  “towers  and  sparkles,  like  a giant  dressed 
in  jewels,  high  over  all  who  came  after  him 

The  third  spark  that  ignited  my  ambition  was  a story  that  I 
read  at  the  age  of  nine  or  ten  either  in  Boy's  Life  or  The  American 
Boy.  I recall  little  about  it,  save  that  it  was  a fourth-dimension 
story,  but  it  harked  the  first  true  awakening  of  my  sense  of  wonder. 

I am  still  afflicted  with  that  sense  of  wonder,  though  to  a lesser 
degree;  I hope  I am  always  afflicted  with  it.  I should  very  much 
hate  to  become  one  of  those  many  people  who  go  through  life 
moved  by  nothing  except  new  cars,  new  hi-fi  sets,  new  boats,  and 
new  electric  can  openers — the  kind  of  people,  in  short,  who  throw 
a dithyrambic  fit  when  they  win  something  on  “The  Price  is 
Righti” 

After  I graduated  from  high  school  Cl  never  went  to  college), 

I had  an  ideal  opportunity  to  write.  The  latter  years  of  the  de^ 
pression  were  in  progress  at  the  time,  and  you  couldn’t  buy  or  steal 
s steady  job,  so  what  more  logical  thing  could  1 have  done,  in 
view  of  the  fact  that  the  plant  where  I began  working  operated  at 
most  but  six  months  out  of  the  year  and  in  view  of  the  fact  that  I 
was  single,  than  to  have  put  my  pen  to  paper?  But  did  I?  Not  me. 
Save  for  a few  half-hearted  attempts  in'this  vein  and  that,  I spent 
most  of  my  spare  time  reading.  I had  the  notion,  probably,  that 
the  more  I read,  the  better  I would  be  qualified  to  write — once  I 
finally  got  around  to  doing  so.  I did  not  know  then  that  a person 
can  live  in  a thousand  houses  and  still  not  have  the  faintest  idea 
of  how  to  build  one.  In  order  to  be  able  to  build  a house,  you  have 
to  be  a carpenter,  and  in  order  to  get  to  be  a carpenter,  you  have 
to  serve  an  apprenticeship.  Well  anyway,  at  leaist  I got  to  live  in  a 
lot  of  houses.  I lived  in  the  house  of  John  Galsworthy,  the  house 
of  Warwick  Deeping,  the  house  of  Sinclair  Lewis,  the  house  of 
Somerset  Maugham,  the  house  of  Dorothy  Canfield  Fisher,  the 
house  of  O,  Henry,  the  house  of  Jack  London,  the  house  of  Joseph 
Hergesheimer — I lived,  in  short,  in  the  house  of  just  about  any- 
one I came  to,  and  in  addition  I made  occasional  stopovers  in  a 
rather  large  and  imposing  structure  entitled  “Dr.  Eliot’s  Five  Foot- 
Shelf  of  Books.”  Since  those  years  I have  of  course  lived  in  many 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICHON 


o(h»  bouses^  and  some  of  ^em  have  been  resplendent  indeed; 
but  after  I began  writing  I lost  my  ability  to  live  in  a house  for  the 
sake  of  living  in  it  alone,  and  now,  whenever  I walk  down  some 
literary  corridor — ^-lofty  or  not  quite  so  lofty,  as  the  case  may  be — 
I keep  an  eye  peeled  for  this  example  of  workmansifeip  and  that. 

With  the  passing  of  the  depression  years,  I found  myself  with  a 
1-A  classification,  and  not  long  thereafter  I found  myself  in  the 
Army.  Meanwhile,  I had  gotten  married.  Three  and  a half  years 
later,  finding  myself  a civilian  once  again>  I went  to  work  in  a 
local  factory  spraying  castings,  moved  on  to  another  local  factory 
where  I worked  as  a machinist,  moved  on  to  a nearby  steel  mill 
where  I worked  as  a third  helper,  a stopper-maker,  a slagger,  a 
clerk,  and  a mud-man,  moved  on  to  a non-ferrous  foundry  where 
I worked  as  a metal  pourer.  I was  p>ouring  metal  when  I sold 
my  first  story.  After  that,  I got  a job  in  another  machine  shop  and 
becapie  what  is  known  as  a “setup  man.”  When  the  machine  shop 
transferred  to  another  town,  I became  an  assembler,  and  then  a 
shipping  clerk,  but  long  before  this  I had  become  a writer,  which 
Was  the  only  thing  1 had  really  wanted  to  become  in  the  first 
place. 

I am  47,  5'  9^,  and  wear  glasses.  T was  brought  up  a Republic- 
tan,  but  I seldom  vote  the  same  ticket  two  times  running.  My  wife 
and  I have  one  daughter,  who  is  now  married,  and  we  are  grand- 
parents of  some  eight  months  standing.  We  own  our  own  bouse, 
and  the  house  is  located  some  several  hundred  feet  from  the  wa- 
ters of  Lake  Erie.  On  clear  days  I can  look  through  the  windows 
of  the  enclosed  front  porch  where  I do  my  writing  and  see  Can- 
ada. Or  rather,  I would  be  able  to  were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  1 
usually  keep  the  drapes  drawn.  Looking  at  Canada  is  fine,  but  you 
can't  look  at  Canada  and  write  too.  I have  no  hobbies,  unless  you 
am  call  reading  a hobby.  Or  feeding  the  birds  (this  meaning  I 
saw  a white-breasted  nuthatch^  1 belong  to  no  organizations.  I 
don't  believe  in  organizations.  I like : opera,  cold  weather,  “The 
Defenders",  trees,  roast  beef  on  kummelweek,  and  the  works  of 
Virginia  Woolf.  I dislike:  rock  'n  roll,  hot  weather,  “The  Danny 
'Ihomas  Show",  superhighways,  pizza,  and  housewife-writers  who 
extol  their  own  literary  achieveonents  on  the  pages  of  writers'  mag- 
azines. I dread:  having  people  come  up  to  me  and  say,  “I  have  an 


IN  WHAT  CAVERN  OP  THE  DEEP 


85 


Idea  tiiat  will  make  a real  Jim-Dandy  of  a story,”  or,  even  worse, 
having  people  come  up  to  me  and  say,  "You  should  write  my  Life 
Story — wow!” — and  then  proceed  to  tell  it  to  me.  — r.f.y. 


IN  WHAT  CAVERN  OF  THE  DEEP 

by  Robert  F.  Young 


Snow  lay  along  the  cliff 
top  and  more  snow  was  slanting 
in  over  the  Atlantic,  pitting  the 
leaden  waves  that  one  by  one  were 
assailing  the  narrow  strip  of  beach 
at  the  cliff’s  base.  The  trees  along 
the  cliff  top  were  black,  their 
leaves  long  torn  away  by  Novem- 
ber storms.  The  cottage  sat  some 
distance  back  from  the  trees,  blu- 
ish sn^ke  rising  from  the  chimney 
and  fleeing  with  the  wind.  In  front 
of  the  cottage  and  on  the  edge  of 
the  cliff  was  a small  gun-emplace- 
ment, and  beside  the  emplace- 
ment, mackinaw  collar  raised 
against  the  slanting  snow,  David 
Stuart  stood. 

And  he  took  his  staff  in  his 
hand,  and  chose  him  five  smooth 
stones  out  of  the  brook  and  put 
them  in  a shepherd's  hag  . . . 
and  kis  sling  was  in  his  hand  , . . 

Many  summers  had  fled  the 
cliff  and  the  cottage,  many  springs 
and  falls.  Winter  loved  to  lash  the 
gentle  grass  that  grew  before  the 
door,  to  whip  the  trees  that  stood 


along  the  cliff  top,  to  belabor  the 
little  beach  that  lay  below  . . . 
In  the  cottage,  storm-bound  they 
had  lain,  flesh  against  flesh  and 
breath  to  breath,  warding  off  the 
bitter  cold.  Winter  had  tried  with 
all  its  might  to  destroy  the  fortress 
that  their  love  had  built  around 
them,  and  they  had  laughed  in 
darkness,  laughed  in  warmth, 
knowing  that  the  fortress  would 
not  fall. 

But  now  the  fortress  was  gone. 

Snow  stinging  his  face,  I^vid 
looked  oiit  to  sea.  He  looked  for 
gold — the  gold  of  a woman’s  hair. 
For  golden  tresses  kelp-bed  vast, 
for  shoal-shoulders  surging  with 
the  sweep  of  cyclopean  arms;  for 
the  tempest-thrust  pf  mast-long 
legs.  There  would  be  gulls  and 
dolphins,  too,  if  the  reports  were 
correct — the  gulls  circling  high 
above  her  spume-crowned  head, 
the  dolphins  romping  all  around 
her.  Out  of  the  deep  she  would 
rise,  as  golden  as  the  sun — comely 
as  Jerusalem,  terrible  as  an  .trmy 


86 

with  banners — and  then  his  huge 
horrendous  sling  would  speah, 
and  she  would  be  no  more.  . . . 
How  lovely  was  thy  gentle  fore- 
head— kow  beautiful  were  thy 

with  shoes  I 

The  wind  took  on  an  added 
sharpness,  and  David  turned  his 
head  to  shield  his  numbing  cheeks. 
The  cottage  came  into  his  line  of 
vision,  and  as  he  stood  there  gaz- 
ing at  the  memoried  winter-bower 
a girl  came  out  and  started  walk- 
ing toward  him  through  the  day- 
before-Christmas  snow.  A heavy 
coat  muffled  the  tall  figure  he 
knew  so  well;  a woolen  kerchief 
restrained  the  dark-brown  hair 
that  soznetiznes  fell  about  him  in 
the  night.  The  dear  grayness  (rf 
her  eyes  was  forever  taking  him 
unawares,  and  it  did  so  now  as 
she  came  up  to  him  and  said,  “I 
made  some  coffee,  David,  It’s  on 
the  stove.  Drink  some,  and  then 
lie  down.” 

He  shook  his  head.  "Ill  have  a 
cup,  and  come  right  back.” 

^'No.  You’ve  been  up  all  night. 
If  she  comes.  111  call  you  the  min- 
irte  I see  her.  Youll  have  plenty  of 
time  to  align  the  gun." 

Awakened  by  the  thought 
sleep,  his  tiredness  rose  up  and 
tried  to  overcome  him.  He  fought 
it  back.  "The  wind  is  raw,”  he  said, 
^ou  should  have  brought  a blan- 
ket to  wrap  around  you.” 

‘Tu  be  all  right.” 

He  said,  "I  wonder  if  she’s 
cold.” 


FiiNTASV  AND  SCtETKa  PlCnO]^ 

She  said,  "You  know  she  can't 
be.  That  she’s  not  human  any 
more.  Go  inside  and  sleep.” 

“All  right — 111  try.” 

He  hesitated,  wanting  to  kiss 
her.  Somehow,  he  could  not.  "Call 
me  if  she  comes  then.  Call  me 
anyway  in  three  hours . ” 

"I  put  some  blankets  on  the 
sofa.  It’s  warmer  there.  Now  don’t 
worry — everything  will  be  all 
right.” 

He  left  her  side  and  walked 
across  the  snow-covered  lawn.  Vic- 
torious, his  tiredness  climbed 
upon  his  shoulders.  They  sa^d 
beneath  the  crushing  weight.  He 
felt  like  an  old  man.  Old  before  I 
am  forty,  he  thought.  Old  before  1 
am  even  thirty-five.  This  day  wiU 
the  Lord  deliver  thee  into  mine 
hand;  and  I will  smite  thee  . . . 

It  was  warm  in  the  cottage. 
Wood  that  he  had  split  the  day  be- 
fore burned  brightly  in  the  fire- 
place, the  reds  and  yellows  of  the 
flames  playing  over  the  blanket- 
covered  sofa.  David  removed  his 
mackinaw  £ind  hung  it  on  the  rack 
beside  the  door.  He  hung  his  hat 
beside  it  and  kicked  out  of  his  ga- 
loshes. The  warmth  laid  soothing 
fingers  upon  his  brow.  But  he 
knew  that  he  could  not  sleep. 

The  aroma  of  fresh-brewed  coi- 
fee  came  from  the  kitchen,  and  he 
.went  out  into  the  little  room  and 
poured  a steaming  cupful.  All 
around  him,  memories  hovered:  in 
plate  and  bowl  and  saucer,  in.  pot 
and  pan  and  stove;  in  the  color  ol 


W WHAT  CAVEftN  OF  THE 

the  curt^s,  in  the  panels  of  the 
walls.  Honeymoon  mornings  she 
had  made  co£Eee>  fried  bacon; 
broken  eggs  into  a crackling  pan. 
The  table  where  they  had  break* 
fasted  stood  like  a shrine  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor.  Abruptly,  he 
turned  and  walked  away,  leaving 
his  cofiEee  forgotten  on  the  stove. 

In  the  living  rdom  again,  he  sat 
down  on  the  sofa  and  took  off  his 
shoes.  The  heat  of  the  fire  reached 
out  and  touched  his  face.  His 
woolen  shirt  began  to  prickle,  and 
he  removed  it  and  sat  there  in  his 
T-shirt  and  his  trousers,  staring  at 
the  flames.  He  could  hear  the 
wind,  and  her  name  was  on  its 
breath.  Helen,  it  whispered  again 
and  again.  Helenl  . . . Far  out 
to  sea,  the  sunny  tresses  he  had 
once  caressed  spread  out  like  gol- 
den kelp-beds;  far  out  to  sea,  the 
lovely  head  he  had  once  cradled 
on  his  shoulder  plied  cold  and  dis- 
mal waves;  far  out  to  sea,  the  sup- 
ple body  he  had  once  adored 
rolled  to  and  fro  in  leviathan  un- 
dulations. ...  In  the  gray 
morning  light  he  that  the 
backs  of  his  hands  were  glistening 
with  tiny  drops  of  moisture.  He 
stared  at  the  drops  uncomprehend- 
ingly,  and  as  he  stared  another  one 
appeared.  He  knew  then  that  they 
were  fallen  tears. 

I 

Oddly  enough,  he  had  received 
an  impression  of  talliibss  the  very 


87 

first  time  he  saw  her.  'The  impres- 
sion was  a false  one,  arising  from 
their  different  positions — she  had 
just  stood  up  on  the  raft  and  he 
was  climbing  onto  it — but  in  the 
years  that  followed  he  never  forgot 
how  goddess-like  she  seemed  when 
he  emerged  from  the  blue  water  at 
her  very  feet  and  gazed  up  at  her. 
It  was  the  first  faint  sounding  of  a 
leitmotiv  that  was  destined  to 
grow  in  sound  and  grandeur  until 
it  dominated  his  life. 

The  fullness  of  her  pectorals 
and  the  deepness  of  her  chest  led 
him  to  suspect  that  she  was  an  ex- 
cellent swimmer.  Her  long  legs, 
smoothly  yet  powerfully  muscl^, 
strengthened  the  suspicion,  and 
the  golden  cast  of  her  skin  did 
nothing  to  disaffirm  it.  But  she  was 
not  a particularly  tall  girl,  he  saw 
when  he  stood  up  beside  her;  tall, 
yes — but  no  taller  than  the  five 
feet,  four  necessary  to  put  the  top 
of  her  golden  head  oh  a level  with 
his  chin.  The  brown-haired  girl 
who  had  also  been  sun  bathing  on 
the  raft  and  who  had  also  stood  up 
was  unmistakably  the  taller  of  the 
two.  She  gave  David  a penetrating 
glance  out  of  cool  gray  eyes,  then 
donn^  a yellow  bathing  cap. 
"Come  on,  Helen,  we’ve  got  to 
dress  for  dinner,”  she  said  to  her 
companion,  and  dived  into  the 
water  and  struck  out  in  an  easy 
crawl  for  the  white  strip  of  beach 
with  its  decor  of  piers  and  cot- 
tages. 

The  golden  girl  donned  a white 


88 


cap  and  was  about  to  fed- 
low  when  David  said,  ‘Dem’t  go* 
yet — please.* 

She  regarded  him  curiously, 
and  he  saw  that  the  September  sl^ 
had  copied  its  color  from  the  blue- 
ness of  her  eyes.  " ‘Please?  Why 
please*?^^ 

“Becau®  FlI  probably  never 
swim  out  here  again  and  find 
someone  like  you  standing  in  the 
sun,*  David  said.  “Because  I’m  a 
miser  as  regard  to  moments,  and 
when  I find  a golden  one  Kke  this 
I’m  compelled  to  do  everything  I 
can  to  keep  it  from  slipping 
through  my  fingers  before  I get  a 
dhance  to  hoard  it." 

*You*re  strange.  Do  you  fcnist 
with  windmiHs,  too?* 

He  smiled.  “Sometimes."  And 
then,  “I  already  know  your  name*" 
he  went  on.  “Or  at  least  the  first 
part  of  it.  For  the  record,  miners 
D^vid — David  Stuart." 

She  removed  her  bathing  cap, 
and  her  golden  hair  came  tum- 
bling softly  down  around  her 
cheeks  and  neck.  Her  face  some- 
how managed  to  be  both  oval  and 
heart-shaped,  and  the  line  of  her 
eyebrows  was  a logical  and  natu- 
re extension  of  the  delicate  line 
of  her  nose.  “For  the  record,”  she 
said,  “the  last  part  of  mine  is  Aus- 
ten.” She  seemed  to  make  up  her 
mind.  “Very  well,  I can  spare  a 
minute — three,  if  I skip  my  show- 
er. But  no  more  than  that.” 

She  sat  down  in  the  sun,  and 
he  sat  down  beside  her.  White- 


FAMTAST  AiW  SCfESJCE  FfCTipH 

caps  danc%d  arornid  thi^  ott  dte 
blucne^  of  the  lake  and  above 
their  heads  a lofty  famfly  of  cir- 
rus clouds  hovered  sedately  in  tl« 
sky.  “F  thought  I knew  everycaie 
at  the  resort  by  this  time,*  she  said. 
“My  sister  BaAara  and  1 harebeCTr 
here  for  almost  a month.  You  must 
becryptozoic." 

“No,”  he  said,  “I  just  arriv^ 
this  morning.  Not  long  ago*,'  I 
found  myself  the  inheritor  of  quite 
a number  of  things,  among  them  a 
beach  house.  I wanted  to  get  some 
benefit  out  of  it  before  the  season 
died.” 

“You  won't  get  very  much.  TV 
morrow's  burial  day,  you  know."^ 

“Wot  for  my  season.  Fve  struck 
Labor  I>ay  from  my  calendar.  I've 
always  had  a penchant  for  Sep- 
tember beaches,  but  this  is  the  first 
time  IVe  ever  had  a chance  to-in- 
Ajlge  ft.  FU  probably  hang  around 
here  till  October,  keeping  com- 
pany with  the  herring  gulls  and 
old  memories." 

She  looked  out  over  die  dancing 
w^ter.  “m  think  of  you  when  I’m 
back  in  the  salt  mines  laboring 
over  dictation  pad  and  typewrit- 
er.” 

The  line  of  her  neck  and  chui 
was  faintly  childlike.  Somehow, 
she  made  him  think  of  a Httle 
girl.  “You’re  har(2y  more  than 
nineteen,  are  you?"  he  asked  won- 
deringly.^ 

“I’m  twen^-one,  and  secretarial 
school  is  f»  behind  me,  I wanted 
to  go  into  training  and  swim  the 


IN  WHAT  CA^SN  OF  THE  DEEP 


Channel,  but  my  sister 
who  is  wise  in  all  things, 
condnced  me  that  1 should  settle 
. lor  a more  staid  career." 

*TfOu  don't  look  like  your  sister," 
he  said.  And  then,  "Tell  me  about 
your  swimming." 

"I  took  the  women's  long-dis- 
tance A.A.U.  championship  in 
1966.  Does  that  contribute  any- 
thing to  your  golden  moment?” 

“It  enhances  it  no  end.  But  it 
also  gives  me  a feeling  of  infer- 
iority. I can’t  even  swim  a mile." 

"You  could  if  you  went  about  it 
right.  Swimming  is  a more  natural 
form  of  locomotion  than  walking 
is,”  She  donned  her  bathing  cap 
again — this  time  for  keeps — and 
; stocd  up.  “I’m  afraid  your  three 
[ minutes  expired  some  time  ago, 
I and  now  I really  must  go." 
r He  stood  up  beside  her.  “ril 
swim  in  with  you,"  he  said. 

; They  dived  together,  emerged 
glistening  in  the  sun,  and  struck 
I out  for  shore,  she  with  a lazy  play 
of  arms  and  legs,  he  with  a labori- 
f.  ous  side  stroke.  On  the  beach,  wa- 
^ ter  dancing  down  her  smooth 
tanned  skin,  she  said,  "I  hope  the 
moment  makes  a distinguished 
addition  to  your  collection.  And 
' now,  I must  run.” 
k "Wait,”  he  said.  "I  wouldn't  be  a 
s true  miser  if  one  golden  moment 
didn't  make  me  greedy  for  an- 
other." 

J "But  one  more  will  only  make 
i you  greedy  for  still  another — isn't 
li  that  so?” 


"It  is  a sort  of  vicious  at 

that,”  he  admitted.  "But  I 0804*1 
help  myself,  and  time  is  running 
short,  and — " 

"I’ll  be  at  the  pavilion  with  Bar- 
bara tonight,”  Helen  said.  "You 
may  buy  me  one  glass  of  beer,  if 
you  like — but  only  one.”  She 
turned  and  ran  toward  the  flight 
of  stairs  that  climbed  the  low  bank 
along  whose  crest  the  summer 
cottage  stood.  “Good  by  now,"  she 
called  over  her  shoulder. 

"Good  by,”  David  said,  the  late- 
afternoon  sunlight  warm  upon  his 
back,  the  song  of  her  sounding 
deep  within  him.  Yes,  she  was  the 
one;  he  was  sure  of  it  now.  The 
song  said  so  over  and  over.  His 
footsteps  were  airy  as  he  made  his 
way  toward  the  beach  house. 
There  was  none  like  her— none, 
the  song  sang.  None  like  her — 
none.  Arrayed  beside  her,  the 
windfall  of  his  inheritance  was  a 
scattering  of  withered  apples.  She 
was  the  single  golden  apple  that 
had  not  yet  fallen,  and  he  would 
climb  high  ioto  the  branches  of  the 
tree  and  taste  the  golden  sweetness 
of  her  and  put  to  rout  the  hunger 
of  his  lonely  years. 

His  uncle’s  beach  house — he 
hadn't  yet  grown  accustomed 
enough  to  his  new  way  of  life  to 
think  of  the  various  Items  of  his 
inheritance  as  his  own — ^was  one 
of  the  three  residences  among 
which  the  old  man  had  rationed 
the  last  years  of  his  long  life.  The 


90 


my^AST  AitB  scjswe®  nprtbN 


otih£jr  £990  ware  a cottage  <m  ^ iso- 
lated sectkm  of  the  Coimecticut 
cs^t  sod  a bungalow  on  Bijou-de^ 
mer,  a small  island  in  the  Coral 
Sea.  In  addition  to  owning  the 
bnngalow,  the  old  man  had  also 
owned  the  island,  and  on  it  in  his 
yoi^ger  days  he  had  pursued  two 
of  the  very  few  hobbies  he  had 
ever  permitted  himself — the  cuhi- 
vaCioD  of  rice  and  the  production 
ofeopra. 

The  beach  house  was  more  than 
a mere  summer  home — it  was  a 
y(mng  mansion.  Compared  to  it, 
the  ordinary  resort  cottages 
brought  to  mhid  a coBection  of 
ON^Iakers'  dwdlmgs.  On  the 
beach  side,  a green  kwn  pat- 
terned with  and  we^ng 

wiltows  spread  lazily  down  to  a 
low  breakwaU.  The  motif  of  trees 
and-  grass  was  repeated  on  the  east 
and  on  the  west  sides,  and  was  va- 
ried Slightly  in  the  rear  by  a black- 
top driveway  that  wound  in  from 
the  resort  road  to  a three-car  ga- 
rage. 

Anreriean-  Colonial  design,  the 
house  stood  three  stories  high.  A 
high-ceilinged  living  room  ran  the 
entire  width  of  the  first  story,  and 
from  the  living  room  two  arch- 
ways led  respectively  to  an  elabo- 
rate dining  room  and  a king-sized 
kitchen.  The  second  story  was 
given  over  to  a spacious  den,  a 
period-piece  bar,  a large  library,  a 
three-tabled  billiard  room,  a big 
bathroom,  and  a huge  master  bed- 
room. The  third  ftoor  was  devoted 


entirely  to  girest  rooms,  eath:  of 
which  had  its  own  bathroom.  The 
servant  quarters  were  just  off  the 
kitchen  and  could  be  reached  by 
a separate  outside  doorway.  This 
was  the  doorway  David  used.  He 
hadn’t  as  yet  shed  the  awe  of  the 
rich  that  his  middle-class  jrarents 
had  instined  in  him  before  they 
broke  lip,  nnd’  he  felt  more  like  a 
trespasser  than  he  did  an  owner. 
Moreover,  the  mere  thought  of  get- 
ting sand  on  the  thousand-<folIar 
living-room  rug  appalled  him. 

The  servants  had  beerr  dis- 
charged after  his  uncle's  death, 
and,  other  than  making  arrange- 
ments with  someone  in  the  nearby 
village  of  Bayvdfe  to  come  around 
twice  a week  and  do  what  needed 
to  be  done  to  keep  up  the  grounds, 
he  had  hired  no  one  to  replace 
them.  Even  if  he  had  known  ex- 
actly how  to  go  about  getting  a 
butler  and  a cook  and  a maid  he 
would  have  balked  at  the  idea,  not 
because  he  considered  it  wrong  for 
one  human  being  to  wait  on  an- 
other but  because  having  always 
done  for  himself  he  instinctively 
shied  away  from  the  idea  of  having 
someone  else  do  for  him.  Besides, 
all  his  life  he  had  yearned  for  the 
privacy  that  only  wealth  can  bring, 
and  now  that  he  had  it  he  had  no 
intention  of  sharing  it  with  stran- 
gers. 

After  undressing  in  the  modest 
guest  room  that  he  had  chosen  for 
his  own,  he  shaved  and  showered 
in  the  adjoining  bathroom.  For  die 


ns  %i3a^T  GA’^no^  of  thf 

ereni^g  lie  domsed  a slacks  and 
shirt  ensemble  that  had  cost  him 
Tnore  than  he  used  to  pay  £or  his 
sadts.  ‘'For  casual  wear,”  the  clerk 
had  said,  but  David  felt  anything 
but'  casual  as  he  stood  before  the 
mirror  and  surveyed  himself.  He 
felt  stlS  ^d  awkward  and  out  of 
place,  and  he  looked  exactly  the 
way  lie  felt. 

He  drove  into  Bayville  for  din- 
ner. Shadows  were  long  upon  the 
lawn  when  he  returned,  and  he 
sat  on  the  colonnaded  porch  till 
they  grew  longer,  till  they  fled  be- 
foM!  the  soundless  footsteps  of  eve- 
nh^  then  he  set  o&  dovtm  the 
beach  toward  the  pavilion.  He  had 
never  visited  the  place,  but  he  rec- 
ognized it  the  minute  he  saw  it 
sprawling  on  the  shore,  its  lights 
leaking  through  its  poplar-guarded 
windows  and  spilling  onto  the 
sand.  The  second  he  stepped  in- 
side, he  felt  lost.  Young  people 
lined  the  bar  and  crowded  around 
the  tables.  AH  of  them,  it  seemed, 
were  talking  at  once,  and  their 
voices  blending  with  the  juke-box 
blare  created  a background  roar 
that  was  downright  nerve-racking. 
This  was  a place  for  children,  not 
adults.  David,  who  was  only  twen- 
ty-nine, felt  forty. 

He  edged  into  a narrow  space 
a the  bar  and  ordered  a beer  that 
he  didn’t  want.  He  was  beginning 
to  wish  that  he  hadn't  come;  then 
he  saw  Helen  and  Barbara  come  in 
and  take  a table  by  one  of  the  wide 
t^^idovi^  thdt  looked  c»it  ewer  the 


91 

lake.  He  ordered  two  more  beoisv 
and,  carrying  them  along  with  his 
own,  made  his  way  across  the 
crowded  room.  Helen's  eyes  were 
on  him  all  the  way,  and  when  he 
set  the  three  glasse*-  down  on  tile 
table  at  the  end  of  his  precarious 
journey,,  she  rewarded  him  with  a 
warm  “Hello”.  "This  is  David  Stu- 
art, Barbara,”  she  said  to  her  com- 
panion. Turning  back  to  David^ 
she  said,  “This  is  my  sister  Bar* 
bara.  She  writes  love  stories  for  the 
magsezines.” 

Barbara  gave  him  a long  cool 
glance.  She  was  wearing  a white 
dress  that  brought  to  mind  a Gre- 
cian tunic.  Helen’s  dress  was  pas- 
tel pink  and  clung  like  morning 
mist  to  her  golden  skin.  Thy  two 
breasts  are  like  two  yonn^  roes 
that  are  twins,  which  feed  among 
the  lilies  ... 

‘You  are  the  David  Stuart  1 
read  about  some  time  ago,  arenT 
you?”  Barbara  asked  him  after  he 
sat  down.  “The  one  who  harvested' 
the  golden  grain?" 

. David  nodded.  “My  uncle’s 
golden  grain." 

“Helen  wouldn’t  believn  me 
when  I told  her  you  were  filthy 
rich.” 

“You  talk  as  though  being  rich 
were  a crime.’* 

“It’s  only  my  envy  showing.  I 
have  no  uncles,  but  if  I did  ha've 
you  could  depend  on  everyone  of 
them  being  as  dirt  poor,  as  I am.” 

“Well  1 have  no  uncles  either," 
Helen  said,  "and  I don’t  feel  a bit 


92 

bitter.  Do  you  like  being  rich,  Da- 
vid?” 

“I  don’t  know.  I haven’t  got  used 
tpit  yet.” 

“You  should  read  Fitzgerald,” 
Barbara  said.  “He  had  a complex 
about  rich  people.  Perhaps  you 
have  read  him.” 

David  nodded.  “Poor  Julian.” 

“Poor  David,”  Helen  said.  “Get 
off  his  back,  will  you,  Babs?”  Then, 
to  David,  “I’ve  been  thinking  about 
what  ymi  said  about  gulls  and  old 
memories.  It  will  be  nice  after  all 
the  people  have  gone.” 

“But  not  after  you’ve  gone.  I 
wish  you  could  stay.” 

“I  wish  I could  too.  But  come 
ttwnorrow  night,  it’s  back  to  Buf- 
falo.” 

“And  back  to  Steve,”  Barbara 
said.  “Don’t  forget  Steve.” 

“Steve?”  David  asked. 

“Steve  is  her  true  love.  Didn’t 
you  tell  him  about  Steve,  Helen?” 

“Don’t  be  such  a shrew,  Bar- 
bara., You  know  perfectly  well  I 
haven’t  had  time  to  tell  him  about 
anydiing,” 

David  looked  into' his  beer  glass. 
He  should  have  known  there 
would  be  a Steve.  How  could  there 
help  but  be? 

Barbara  was  speaking  again: 
“What  will  you  do  with  all  your 
delightful  dough,  Mr.  Stuart?  Buy 
a yacht?” 

He  forced  himself  to  smile.  She 
was  beginning  to  bug  him  a little, 
but  he  wasn’t  going  to  give  her  the 
satisfaction  of  knowing  it.  “I  al- 


PANTASY  AND  SOIKNGE  PICrrON  ■ 

ready  have  a yacht.  What  I’d  like 
to  do  is  buy  a typewriter  and  write 
the  Great  American  Novel.” 

Barbara  shook  her  head.  “You 
won’t,  though,  because  you  won't 
be  pressed.  Great  books  are  written 
by  men  who  need  the  money  they 
bring  in.  Take  Balzac.  Take  Dos- 
toevski. Take—” 

“Why  not  take  Flaubert?”  David 
interrupted.  “He  wasn’t  pressed." 

“Not  financially — no.  But  you 
may  rest  assured  that  he  was 
pressed  in  other  ways.”  She  looked 
at  him  keenly.  “I  don’t  think  you 
are,  Mr.  Stuart.  I’ll  bet  you’ve  nev- 
er written  anything  in  your  whole 
life.” 

David  grinned . “Oh  well,  it  was 
only  a passing  thought.  Probably 
what  I’ll  really  do  is  buy  a castle 
with  a moat  filled  with  Cutty  Sark 
and  drink  myself  to  death.  Does 
that  fit  your  preconception  of  a 
parvenu  any  better.  Miss  Austen?” 

“Much  better.”  She  raised  her 
glass,  took  a single  sip  out  of  it, 
and  set  it  back  down  on  the  table. 
She  stood  up.  “I’m  going  to  turn 
in  early  for  a change,  so  I’ll  be  on 
my  way.” 

“Wait,  Babs,”  Helen  said. 

“I  can’t.  Don’t  forget  to  tell  him 
about  Steve  now.” 

Barbara  walked  away.  Helen 
stared  after  her  angrily.  “I  can’t 
understand  it — she’s  never  acted 
like  that  before.” 

David  said,  “I  have  a hunch  she 
doesn’t  like  me.”  He  touched  glass- 
es. “I  know  you  said  only  one,  but 


^ m CAAi^R^  OF  THE:  DllP 

please  up  and  have  one 

iBoce.” 

s "No— one's  my  limit.  Anyway, 
i tbmk  rd  better  be  getting  back 
to  the  cottage  tooi.”  His  disappoint- 
ment must  have  shown  on  his  face, 
for  <die  added,  "But  you-  can  walk 
me  home  if  you-  like,  and  we  can 
sit  on  the  beach  stairs  and  talk  fcKr 
as  while.” 

"Fine.  I don’t  like  it  here  an^^ 
■ way.” 

Outside,  she  rentoved  her  shoes. 
"1  like  to  walk  barefoot,  cm.  the 
1 sand.” 

He  fco<dc  them  from  her.  “Here, 
let  me  carry  them.” 

The  stars  were  out,  but  there 
, was  no  11^013,  the  shoreline 
[;  lay  in  pale  and  dreamlike  dark- 
r iksSm  The  lake  sighed  at  their  feet, 
[;  and  a warm  breeze  bireathed 
I against  their  facesv  They  p^sed 
I dark  blurs  of  blankets  and  heard 
^ lovers  whispering  in  the  night. 
|;  When-  they  came  to  the  stairs,  Hel- 
I en  s^,  "This  is  vihere  I meant. 
I IVe  sat  here  k^s  of  time,  looking 
f.  at  the  stars.” 

I "All  alone?” 

"Yes,  all  alone.  You’re  the  only 
I"  boy  I’ve  met  this  summer.” 

David  laughed.  "I  haven’t  been 
aTjoy’  for  quite  some  time.” 

"To  me,  you  seem  like  one.  Shall 
we  sk  down?” 

The  stairs  we^  narrow,  and 
they  had  to  squeeze  to  make  it 
b Thev  sat  there  sade  by  side,,  shoul- 
I ders  touching,.  "You  were  supposed 
I to  tell  me  ahe^  Steve,”  David  said. 


"Remember?” 

'There  isn’t  much  to  tdL  I’ve 
known  him  for  about  a year.  Ife’s 
asked  me  to  marry  him  several 
times,  but  somehow  I couldn't  say 
‘yes’.  I guess  it  was  because  I did- 
n’t know  for  sure  whether  I hival 
him  or  not.” 

'TDiidn’t?” 

"Did  I use  the  past  tense?  Yes„I 
guess  I must  have.  Because  1 do 
know  for  sure  now.” 

“That  you  do  love  him?” 

"That  I don’t.” 

David  realized  that  he  had  been, 
holdmg.  his  breath.  He  expelled  it 
SGkftly.  “I  think  I'd  better  tell  you 
a lit^  hit  aboiU  myself,”  he  si^. 
"I'm  frightened  of  my  wealth,  be- 
cause in  my  heart  I'm  still  poor. 
You  get  so  used  to  being  poor  that 
you  accept  it  as  the  nonxiai  order 
of  things,  and  if  you  become  rich 
overnig^it  you  try  to  reassure  your- 
self by  continuing  to  associate  with 
the  people  you  associated  with 
when  you  were  poor.  And  then  you 
find  out  what  kind  of  people  they 
really  are.  They  drive  you  from 
their  doors  with  their  envy  and 
they  hound  you  in  public  places, 
and  there  you  are,  stranded  be- 
tween two  worlds — the  old  one 
that  no  longer  wants  any  part  of 
you  and  the  new  one  that  you’re 
too  timid  - to  enter.  I’m  at  sea  in. 
another  respect,  too.  Somehow, 
I’ve  always  had  the  notion  that 
bcx)ks  are  as  important  to  a man  as- 
his  daily  br^ad,  and  I’ve  spent  half 
my  life  reading  them.  Good  books. 


94 

bad  books,  mediocre  books — all 
kinds  of  books.  When  ray  mother 
and  father  got  divorced — that’s 
why  my  uncle  disinherited  them, 
incidentally — I was  old  enough  to 
t^e  care  of  myself,  and  1 quit 
school  and  went  to  work.  Since 
then,  I’ve  worked  at  all  sorts  of  jobs 
in  all  sorts  of  different  places.  1 
drove  truck,  I delivered  mail,  1 
pumped  gas.  I did  this  and  1 did 
that,  and  all  the  while,  1 read, 
read,  read.  For  about  six  months  1 
worked  on  a Great  Lakes  ore  boat 
and  studied  navigation  in  my 
spare  time,  but  that  didn’t  suit  me 
cither,  and  I finally  ended  up  in 
Lackawanna  working  at  Bethle- 
hem Steel.  When  my  uncle  died,  I 
was  woricing  the  swing  shift,  and 
reading  The  Forsyte  Saga  in  my 
spare  time  in  a cheap  rooming- 
house.  You  can't  imagine  anything 
more  incongruous  than  that — or 
anything  more  pathetic.  Beware  of 
the  man  of  many  books  who  can’t 
put  what  he’s  read  to  practical  use. 
Beware  of  the  dreamer.  There,  you 
can't  say  you  haven't  been  fore- 
warned.” 

‘Weren’t  there  any  girls?” 

“A  few.  But  the  only  ones  that 
meant  anything  to  me  were  the 
ones  I met  in  books.” 

“It's  a shame  your  parents 
couldn’t  get  along.  Did  they  try  to 
contest  the  will?” 

“My  father  did — my  uncle  was 
his  brother.  But  it  was  no  dice.  As 
soon  as  I get  straightened  around 
I’m  going  to  set  up  an  annuity  for 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

him,  and  one  for  my  mother  tdo. 
They’re  both  remarried  and  they’re 
well  off,  and  both  of  them  have 
children  and  neither  one  of  them 
likes  to  be  reminded  that  I’m  still 
around;  but  it  wouldn’t  be  right  if  I 
didn’t  do  something  for  them.” 

“It’s  good  to  be  kind  to  your  par- 
ents. I never  knew  mine.” 

'You’re  an  orphan  then  ?”  David 
asked. 

“A  foundling.  Sort  of  a freakish 
one.  Barbara’s  father — afterwards 
he  became  my  father,  too — found 
me  one  winter  when  he  was  vaca- 
tioning in  Florida.  I was  lying  on  a 
public  beach,  and  I was  naked 
and  all  tangled  up  with  seaweed 
and  I looked  as  though  I was  half 
dead.  I wasn’t  half  dead,  though 
—I  was  very  much  alive.  But  I 
couldn’t  walk  and  I couldn’t  talk 
and  I had  no  memory  of  what  had 
happened  to  me.  I still  haven’t. 
When  dad  adopted  me  and 
brought  me  home  he  estimated  my 
age  to  be  ten  years'and  figured  out 
the  day  and  the  year  of  my  birth 
accordingly.  He  was  a widower 
and  had  no  other  children  except 
Barbara.  She  and  I grew  up  to- 
gether in  his  house  in  Buffalo.  My 
first  memory  goes  no  further  back 
than  my  eleventh  “birthday.”  I 
could  walk  and  talk  by  then, 
though  not  very  well.  After 
that,  I recovered  fast,  but  what  I 
recovered  from  I've  no  idea,  and  I 
don’t  think  any  of  the  doctore  dad 
took  me  to  have  either.  Anyway,  I 
wasn’t  mentally  retarded,  and  with 


IN  WHAT  CAVEKN  OT  THE  DEEP 

&id’s  and  Barbara'^  help  1 easily 
made  up  for  all  the  vschool  Td 
and  managed  to  graduate 
from  high  school  before  I was 
eighteen.  Bad  gave  me  his  wife’s 
name,  and  when  he  died  three 
years  ago  he  left  the  house  to  both 
Barbara  and  me.  It’s  a fine  house» 
and  we’ve  lived  there  ever  since. 
She  does  all  the  managing,  of 
course — she’s  three  years  older 
than  I am.-  Three  years  is  quite  a lot 
when  you’re  young.” 

“Ei^t  must  seem  an  eternity,” 
David  said.  Suddenly  he  sn^sped 
his  fingers.  "I’ll  bet  that’s  why  yotir 
sister  doesn’t  like  me— she  thinks 
I'm  too  old  for  you.” 

Helen  shook  her  head.  "No, 
that's  not  why.  Barbara’s  very 
broad-minded  about  such  things. 
Besides,  I think  ^re  does  like  you. 
Sometimes  she’s  hard  to  under- 
stand.” She  stood  up.  "I  must  go  in 
now.  I’m  afraid.  May  I have  my 
^loes,  please?” 

"I'll  put  them  on  for  you.” 

When  she  did  not  demur,  he 
knelt  before  her  in  the  sand.  Her 
feet  were  pale  blurs  in  the  star- 
light. His  fingers  trembled  at  the 
touch  of  her  smooth  cool  skin.  He 
slipped  ^ch  shoe  on  gently.  The 
starlight  seemed  to  intensify,  to 
become  rain,  and  the  rain  fell 
soundlessly  all  around  him  in  the 
soft  summer  night.  For  a moment 
he  could  not  breathe,  and  when 
he  could  he  said,  still  kneeling  in 
the  sand,  "How  beautiful  are  tky 
feet  with  sheesl"  He  felt  her  hand 


95 

touch  his  hair,  rest  lightly  there  for 
a moment,  then  fly  away.  Wh^  he 
stood  up,  she  stood  up  too,  and 
standing  as  she  was  on  the  first 
step  she  was  slightly  taller  than  be 
was.  Her  starlit  face  was  v«y  close. 
The  leitmotiv  sounded  again  when 
he  kissed  her,  stronger  this  time, 
then  faded  away  as  they  drew 
apart.  Yes,  it  was  true,  his  heart 
sang,  was  the  one,  and  there 
could  never  be  another  like  her. 
"Good  night,”  he  whispered  g«i- 
tiy  into  her  hair.  "Good  night,”  she 
whispered  gently  back,  and  he 
stood  there  in  the  starlight  listCT- 
ing  to  the  sound  of  her  retreaiting 
footsteps,  and  long  after  he  went 
to  bed  he  heard  them  in  the  deep 
dark  recesses  of  the  night,  and  in 
his  dreams  he  saw  her  starlit  gentle 
face  again  and  rejoiced  in  her  star- 
lit gentle  kiss.  Tba:e  was  none  like 
her,  none.  None  like  her.  None, 

U 

The  wedding  had  been  a modest 
one.  It  took  place  on  the  twenty- 
fourth  of  December  of  that  same 
year  in  a little  church  not  iar  from 
where  Helen  and  Barbara  lived. 
Barbara  was  bridesmaid,  and  for 
the  best  man  David  chose  the  only 
friend  he  had  thus  far  acquired  in 
the  new  world  in  which  he  had  re- 
cently taken  up  residence — Gor- 
don Rawley,  the  youngest  member 
of  the  law  firm  that  had  handle 
David's  uncle’s  affairs  and  that 
now  handled  David’s.  That  same 
day,  David  chartered  a plai^  and 


96 

he  and  Helen  flew  to  Connecticut, 
and  night  found  them  in  the  little 
cottage  on  the  cliff.  They  could 
just  as  easily  have  flown  to  Flor- 
ida, but  both  of  them  liked  white 
Christmases  too  well  to  sacrifice 
this  one — the  loveliest,  probably, 
either  of  them  would  ever  know — 
on  the  altar  of  the  tropics. 

They  remained  in  the  cottage 
two  weeks,  hiking  along  the  snow- 
crowned  cliffs  by  day  and  drinking 
German  beer  in  the  warth  of  pine- 
knot  flames  by  night.  Mornings, 
they  slept  late,  and  afterward  they 
lingered  over  second  coffees  at  the 
little  table  in  the  kitchen.  It  was 
here  that  the  Great  Inspiration  was 
bom.  They  would  go  for  a long 
cruise  in  David’s  yacht,  the  Ne- 
reid, and  visit  his  island  in  the 
Coral  seal 

The  Nereid  was  in  Boston  Har- 
bor. After  hiring  a navigator  and  a 
crew,  they  set  out  on  the  29th  of 
January  and  braved  their  way 
down  die  wintry  coast.  When  the 
Panama  Canal  was  behind  them, 
David  took  advantage  of  the  serene 
Pacific  days  and  nights  and,  with 
the  navigator’s  help,  supplement- 
ed his  knowledge  of  navigation  to 
a point  where  he  could  have  plot- 
ted the  course  himself.  Time 
passed  swiftly.  March  found  the 
Nereid  passing  between  the  Solo- 
mons and  the  New  Hebrides,  and 
not  long  afterward,  Bijou'de’tner 
was  raised. 

David’s  uncle  had  loved  Bijou- 
de-mer  the  way  Stendhal  had  loved 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

Milan,  but  to  David  it  iiyas  a 
disappointment.  He  had  expected 
to  find  the  sort  of  coloidful  tropical 
paradise  that  travel  brochure’s  de- 
picti  instead,  he  found  an  over- 
grown cocoanut  plantation  and  an 
expanse  of  neglected  rice  fields. 
Backgrounding  the  cocoanut 
groves  and  the  rice  paddies  was  a 
series  of  jungle-clad  hills.  There 
was  a good-sized  harbor,  however, 
whose  waters  were  deep  enough 
for  a small  ship  to  anchor  and 
whose  beach  was  pure  coral.  An 
aged  pier  jutted  from  the  shore, 
and  beyond  the  pier  a trail  led 
from  the  beach  to  a low  embank- 
ment that  fan  between  two  acre- 
ages of  rice  paddtes  to  the  hill  on 
which  the  bungalow  stood. 

In  back  of  the  bungalow  there 
was  a shed  containing  a generator, 
but  the  generator  had  seen  its  bet- 
ter days,  and  David  couldn’t  get  it 
to  v^ork.  The  bungalow,  however, 
was  in  halfway  decent  condition, 
and  there  were  plenty  of  candles 
available.  He  and  Helen  made  the 
necessary  repairs  and  cleaned  the 
place  up;  then  they  settled  down 
to  a halcyon  life  of  swipiming  and 
fishing  and  general  all-around  loaf- 
ing. She  loved  the  sea,  and  awak- 
ening mornings  and  finding  an 
empty  pillow  beside  his  own,  he 
would  look  through  the  bedroom 
window  and  see  her  romping  in 
the  distant  surf  and  sometimes 
swimming  out  into  the  blue  waters 
beyond  the  place  where  the  Nereid 
lay  at  anchor.  Upon  her  return,  he 


IK  VSJ^T  CAVERN  OF  THE  DEBT 

would  bawl  her  out  for  her  reck- 
lessness, but  she  would  only  laug^, 
,aHd  say,  “Don’t  be  an  old  woman, 
David.  The  sea  wiB  never  harm 
tae.” 

They  remained  on  die  island  for 
a week*  Probably  they  would  have 
remained  longer  if  the  rainy  sea- 
son hadn’t  set  in.  David  had  heard 
about  the  rainy  season,  but  it  was 
necessary  to  experience  it  in  order 
to  believe  it.  The  rain  fell  in  blan- 
kets, and  water  rushed  doiyn  from 
the  hills,  turning  once-gentle 
lmx>ks  into  raging  torrents.  The 
rice  paddies  didn’t  just  fill — they 
overflowed — and  sometimes  mois- 
ture hung  so  hea^Iy  in  the  air  that 
it  seemed  to  be  raining  inside  as 
well  as  outside  the  bungalow.  Ev- 
erytihing  was  damp — the  clothes 
they  wore,  the  books  they  read,  the 
towels  they  tried  to  dry  themselves 
With,  the  sheets  they  slept  on,  and 
the  food  they  ate.  David  CTidured 
it  for  three  days,  said,  T’ve  had  it, 
Helen — let’s  go  home.** 

He  decided  not  to  go  by  way  of 
the  Panarna  Canal  this  time,  but 
to  proc^d  to  Tacoma,  Washing- 
ton, and  leave  the  Nereid  with 
Reese  and  Harrison,  Inc. — a ship- 
building concCTn  in  which  he 
owned  stock.  The  yacht  needed  m- 
numteraWe  repairs,  and  even 
though  he  knew  that  in  the  end 
the  money  he  would  save  would  be 
negligible,  it  pleased  him  to  do 
business  with  a company  that  in 
part  belonged  to  him.  Rather  than 
keep  the  navigator  and  the  crew 


97 

on  his  payroll  any  lon^r,  he  let 
them  go  at  the  end  of  the  voyage 
and  paid  their  plane  fare  back  to 
Boston,  Then,  after  turning  the 
Nereid  over-to  the  ship-building 
concern  and  leasing  space  for  it  at 
their  private  dock,  he  bought  plane 
tickets  and  he  and  Helen  returned 
to  Buffalo.  They  spent  the  summer 
at  the  beach  house,  and  in  the  fall 
they  rented  a duplex  on  Delaware 
Avenue  and  moved  into  the  city. 

David  had  yet  to  decide,  what 
he  wanted  to  do  with  his  life,  and 
now  he  began  trying  this  .thing  and 
that.  But  without  the  immediacy  of 
having  to  make  living  to  goad  him 
on,  his  pursuits  invariably  fell 
into  the  hobby  category.  He  bought 
the  most  expensive  electric  organ 
he  could  find,  and  he  and  Helen 
began  to  take  lessons.  It  required 
less  than  a month  for  them  to  real- 
ize that  at  best  their  playing  would 
never  be  anything  more  than 
wooden,  and  at  Helen’s  suggestion 
they  abandoned  music  and  took  up 
painting.  David  fared  no  better  In 
this  second  field  of  endeavor  than 
he  had  in  the  first,  but  Helen 
proved  to  have  a latent  talent  of 
sorts,  and  in  a matter  of  weeks 
she  was  turning  out  canvases  that 
were  remarkable  for  their  subject 
matter  alone.  David  found  some  of 
them  upsetting,  and  one  of  them 
he  found  downright  frightening. 
It  depicted  the  interior  of  a huge 
cavern.  Dominating  it  was  an  eerie 
castle  built  erf  crude  stone  blocks. 
Its  towers  were  disproportionately 


98 

tall  and  we:^  covered  with  a sHmy 
green  . growth  that  faintly  resem- 
bled ivy.  In  places,  the  *'ivy"  had 
tom  loose,  and  was  trailing  out- 
'ward  from  the  towers  like  ragged 
pennants  streaming  in  a wind.  The 
windows  were  high  and  narrow, 
and  the  darkness  behind  them  was 
unrelieved  by  so  much  as  a single 
light.  The  atmosphere  was  un- 
earthly. It  had  a cobalt-blue  cast, 
and  it  was  shot  with  strange  rays 
and  filmy  phosphorescences.  As 
though  to  intensify  the  unpleas- 
antness of  the  over-all  effect,  Hel- 
en had  painted  in  a scattering  of 
weird,  piscine  birds. 

He  thought,  for  some  reason,  of 
Shelley’s  The  World  Wanderers, 
and  the  lines 

TeU  me,  thou  Star,  whose  wings 

of  light 

Speed  thee  in  thy  fiery  flight, 

In  what  cavern  of  the  night 
Will  thy  pinions  close  now  ? 

When  he  asked  her  what  the 
painting  was  supposed  to  signify, 
she  seemed  confused.  “Should  it 
signify  something?”  she  asked. 

‘Well  I should  hope  so!  How 
else  can  you  justify  it?” 

She  looked  at  the  bizarre  scene 
for  some  time.  At  length,  she  shook 
her  head.  ‘T  just  painted  it — that’s 
all.  Maybe  it's  surreal,  or  some- 
thing. But  if  it  has  an  underlying 
meaning,  I don’t  know  what  it  is.” 

He  let  the  matter  drop.  How- 
ever, he  disliked  the  canvas  in- 
tensely, and  never  went  near  it 
again. 


FANTASY  ANB  SCIENCE  FICTION 

At  this  time,  the  leitraodv, 
which  had  lain  dormant  in  the  or- 
chestral background  all  these 
months,  sounded  once  again — this 
time  loudly  enough  for  him  to  hear 
it. 

For  some  weeks  he  had  been 
aware  of  a change  in  Helen's  hab- 
its, but  he  had  been  unable  to  dis- 
cover its  cause.  Formerly,  she  had 
gone  to  visit  Barbara  once  or  twice 
a week,  and  often  the  two  of  them 
had  attended  Saturday  matinees 
together  and  dined  out  afterward. 
Now,  Helen  stayed  at  home  virtu- 
ally all  of  the  time,  and  once, 
when  he  asked  her  to  go  to  a con- 
cert at  KJeinhan’s  Music  Hall  with 
him,  she  declined  with  a vehe- 
mence that  startled  him.  It  was 
shortly  after  this  incident  that  he 
noticed  that  she  had  taken  to 
wearing  low-heeled  shoes.  When 
he  asked  her  why,  she  said  that  her 
back  had  been  bothering  her  lately 
and  that  she  had  hoped  that  low 
heels  might  help  it. 

He  thought  no  more  about  the 
matter.  Then,  not  long  afterward 
when  he  was  going  trough  his 
mail  one  afternoon,  he  came  across 
a statement  that  floored  him.  It 
was  from  a dress  shop  that  Helen 
had  never  patronized  before,  and 
the  amount  ran  way  into  four  fig- 
ures. Nevertheless,  it  was  not  the 
amount  that  astonished  him — it 
was  the  list  of  items  die  had 
bought.  For  it  added  up  to  some- 
thing more  than  a mere  total — it 


IN  WHAT  CAVSHN  OF  THB  SE^ 

added  up  to  the  fact  that  she  had 
bought  a uew  wardrobe. 

' Thaoks  to  his  insistence  that 
she  deny  herself  nothing,  she  al- 
ready had  more  clothes  than  she 
knew  what  to  do  with.  Why,  then, 
should  she  suddenly  have  taken  it 
into  her  head  that  she  needed  new 
coats,  new  dresses,  new  shoes,  new 
negligees,  and  new  imderthings? 
And  why  had  she  kept  their  pur- 
chase a secret? 

Maybe  she  hadn’t  meant  to  keep 
it  a secret.  Maybe  it  just  seemed 
that  way  to  him  because  he  hadn’t 
been  home  the  day  the  clothes  had 
been  delivered.  Still,  it  was  odd 
that  she  hadn't  made  any  mention 
of  the  matter — unless  she  wanted 
to  surprise  him.  But  if  she  wanted 
to  surprise  him  she  had  waited  a 
little  too  long. 

Leaving  the  statement  on  his 
desk,  he  left  his  den,  crossed  the 
living  room,  and  ascended  the 
stairs  to  the  second  level.  Helen 
had  converted  one  of  the  three 
bedrooms  into  a studio,  and  she 
was  there  now,  hard  at  work  on  a 
new  canvas.  He  paused  in  the 
doorway,  drawing  a long  draught 
of  her  loveliness  and  drinking  it 
down  to  the  last  drop.  It  was  one 
of  those  phenomenally  warm  days 
that  sometimes  occur  during  In- 
dian Summer,  and  she  had  re- 
moved her  shoes  and  stripped 
down  to  her  slip.  Her  legs  seemed 
longer  and  more  graceful  than 
ever,  her  arms  and  breasts  and 
neck  more  goddess-like.  A playful 


99 

October  wind  was  wafting  through 
the  open  window  and  ruffling  a se- 
ries of  impromptu  bangs  that  had 
fallen  over  her  forehead. 

She  was  so  absorbed  in  her  work 
that  she  didn’t  notice  him  till  he 
went  over  and  stood  beside  her. 
Even  then,  she  didn’t  look  up,  but 
went  on  painting.  The  scene  tak- 
ing shape  on  the  canvas  was  a dis- 
quieting one.  There  was  a chasm- 
hke  valley  filled  with  strange  green 
plants,  the  tenuous  filaments  of 
which  were  growing  straight  up- 
ward in  defiance  of  the  law  of 
gravity.  Scattered  over  the  valley 
floor  were  hundreds  of  tiny  green 
disks,  and  farther  up  the  valley,  so 
deep  in  the  background  as  to  be 
barely  discernible,  was  a series  of 
upright  rib-like  timbers.  In  the 
foreground  stood  a copper-banded 
chest  of  the  kind  associated  with 
seventeenth-century  buccaneers, 
and  on  top  of  It  lay  a human  skull. 

Finally  she  laid  her  palette  and 
brush  aside  and  faced  him.  “Some- 
thing on  your  mind,  darling?” 

He  forced  his  eyes  away  from 
the  canvas.  '“Yes.  I thought  we 
might  go  out  to  dinner  tonight. 
Don  our  glad  togs  and  do  the 
town.” 

Her  blue  eyes  absconded.  ^TMo. 
I don't  think  Fd  care  to  tonighi^ 
David.” 

“But  why  not?  It’s  been  ages 
since  we’ve  gone  anywhere  ...  I 
should  think  you’d  want  to  show 
ofiF  some  of  the  new  things  you 
bou^t.” 


loo 

Her  eyes  came  back,  rested 
briefly  on  his  face,  Aen  ran  away 
again.  “You  got  the  statement 
then.  I was  going  to  tell  you,  but 
somehow  I — ” Abruptly  she  turned 
away  and  walked  over  to  the  win- 
dow and  looked  down  into  the 
street.  “Somehow  I just  couldn’t,” 
she  finished. 

He  went  over  and  took  her 
shoulders  and  turned  her  around. 
‘Don’t  be  upset — I’m  ghd  you 
bought  new  clothes.” 

“I  wouldn’t  have  bou^t  them, 
only — ” Suddenly  she  raised  her 
eyes.  "Look  at  me,”  she  said. 
“Can’t  you  see  what's  happening?” 

"I  am  looking  at  you.  \^at  is  it 
I’m  supposed  to  see?” 

“Look  harder.”  She  moved  closer 
to  him.  “The  top  of  my  head  used 
to  be  level  with  your  diin — re- 
member? Now  look  where  it  comes 
to!” 

His  first  impulse  was  to  laugh; 
flien  he  realized  that  his  lips  were 
brushing  her  forehead  and  that 
her  hair  was  level  with  his  eyes.  In- 
stinctively, he  stepped  back  to  see 
if  she  was  standing  on  tiptoe.  She 
was  not.  For  a moment,  he  could 
not  speak. 

“Now  you  know  why  I don’t  go 
anywhere  any  more,”  she  said. 
“Now  you  know  why  I avoid  Bar- 
bara. Seeing  me  every  day,  you 
haven’t  noticed;  but  other  people 
would.  Barbara  would.  Wh^  you 
don’t  see  someone  every  day  you 
can  spot  a change  in  them  the  min- 
ute you  lay  eyes  on  them.” 


FANTASY  AND  «:iENCE  FICTION 

“And  this— this  is  why  you 
bougjit  a new  wardrobe?” 

“I  had  to — don’t  you  see?  Oh,  I 
let  the  hems  down  on  my  dr^es— 
that  was  no  problem.  But  finally  it 
reached  a point  where  the  dresses 
had  to  be  let  out,  and  I didn’t  know 
how  to  do  it  and  I was  afraid  to 
hire  someone  to  do  it  for  me  for 
fear  they’d  guess  the  truth.  You 
see.  I’m  not  just  growing  taller — 
I’m  growing  bigger  too.  My  feet 
are  growing  bigger,  my  hands  are 
growing  bigger.  I can’t  even  wear 
my  wedding  ring  any  more.  I — ” 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  before 
the  tears  had  a chance  to  begin, 
“But  don’t  you  see,”  he  said,  “that 
what's  happening  to  you  is  per- 
fectly normal?  You’re  supposed  to 
grow  until  you’re  twenty-five!” 

"I’m  supposed  to  fill  out,  yes — 
hut  I’m  not  supposed  to  grow  tall- 
er.” She  rested  her  head  on  his 
shoulder.  “Let’s  not  pretend,  Da- 
vid. I’ve  known  for  a long  time 
that  I was  growing  taller — that 
I’d  never  even  stopped  growing 
taller.  But  my  growth-rate  was  so 
gradual  that  I didn’t  think  any- 
Qiing  about  it.  Now,  it’s  begun  to 
accelerate.  I’ve  grown  two  inches 
in  the  last  two  months!  I’m  three 
inches  taller  now  than  I was  when 
you  married  me!  I’m  ten  pounds 
heavierl” 

“All  of  which  makes  you  the  ex- 
ception that  proves  the  rule  but 
which  certainly  doesn’t  mean 
you're  going  to  go  on  growhrg 
taller.” 


IN  WHAT  CAVERN  OF  THE  D^P 

SKe  didn't  seem  to  hear  him. 
high  heels  cm  I’d  be  as  tali 
'Sv  you  a^lv  A shudder  shot 
^roi^  het.  David,  it’s  not 
fair!” 

"I’ll  tell  you  what,”  he  said.  "To- 
morpow,  we’ll  pay  your  family  doc- 
t(w:  a visit  and  let  him  put  your 
fears  to  rest.  But  tonight,  we'll  get 
dressed  and  go  out  to  dinner,  and 
afterwards  well  take  in  a show. 
You’ve  been  cooped  up  here  for  so 
kmg  that  you’ve  imagined  your^lf 
to  be  taller  dian  you  really  are. 
Why,  II!  bet  if  you  measured  you’d 
find  diat  at  the  most  you’\«  only 
grown  half  an  inchl” 

"Don’t  you  think  I hme  meaS' 
ured?  Don’t  you  think — ’’ 

"All  right  then — you  have.  But 
it’s  nc^hing  to  worry  about.  Come 
on,  get  ready  and  we’ll  go.  If 
there's  any  worrying  that  needs  to 
be  done,  I'll  do  it.” 

Ail  Ae  while  was  gating 
dressed  he  tried  Xa  convince  him* 
self  that  there  was  none,  Imt  he 
didn’t  quite  succeed.  He  didn’t 
know  very  much  about  gigmitism, 
but  he  knew  ^ough  about  it  to 
ruin  his  dinner  and  iib  spoil  the 
movie  that  they  went  to  afterward. 
If  Helen  really  was  suffering  from 
the  condition,  her  continued 
growth  wasn’t  necessarily  going  to 
stop  at  three  ^ra  inches  and  ten 
extra  pounds.  It  could  go  on  and 
^ till  she  turned  into  the  freak 
she  already  imagined  she  had  be- 
come. 

' But  Doctor  Bonner,  Helen’s  fam- 


101 

ily  phyddan,  didn't  share  Da'dd’s 
premonitions.  After  giving  her  a 
complete  physical,  he  said  that  he 
bad  never  seen  a healthier  woman. 
There  was  no  indication  that  nor- 
mal edification  hadn’t  occurred, 
and  she  diowed  no  signs  of  the 
physical  weakness  that  usually  ac- 
cenhpanies  gigantism.  Like  David, 
he  didn’t  believe  that  she  had 
grown  nearly  as  much  as  she 
thought  she  had,  and  he  told  her 
that  she  had  gotten  herself  upset 
over  nothing.  “I  hereby  pronounce 
you  physically  sound,”  he  said.  “If 
you  suffer  feom  any  more  growing 
pains,’’  he  added  widr  a grin,  "tw 
sure  to  let  me  know.” 

"I  don’t  think  he  believed  a word 
of  what  I told  him,"  Helen  said  on 
the  way  home.  “Why,  he  treated 
me  like  a little  child!" 

"But  don't  you  thiiik,”  Davkl 
suggested,  "that  part  of  it 
be  your  imagination?  Maybe  you 
^ew  an  inch,  or  maybe  even  an 
inch  and  a half,  but  three  seems  a 
little  far-fetched.” 

“But  I tell  you  that  I did  grow 
three  inches!  Three  and  a quarter 
inches,  in  fact!” 

David  laughed.  "All  right — I 
won’t  argue  with  you.  But  appar- 
ently they’re  perfectly  normal  inch- 
es, so  1 don’t  see  what  harm  they 
can  do.  It’s  stylish  for  girls  to  be 
tall  these  days." 

Suddenly,  she  smiled.  “Well  if 
you  don’t  mind,  I certainly  should- 
n’t. Do  you  know  what? — I think 
m go  see  Barbara  this  afterno(m.” 


102 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 


She  did,  too.  She  returned,  ra- 
diant.  “Barhaora  didn’t  even  notice 
till  she  saw  that  I was  wearing  low 
heels.  It’s  funny,  isn’t  it,  how  ev- 
erybody thinks  they’re  the  center 
of  the  universe  and  that  if  they 
even  so  much  as  comb  their  hair 
different,  the  whole  wide  world 
will  sit  up  and  take  notice  right 
away?  I feel  like  celebrating.  Do 
you  think  you  could  stand  a date 
with  the  same  girl  two  nights  run- 
ning, Mr.  Stuart?” 

“Only  if  she  happens  to  be  a 
lovely  number  I happen  to  know. 
Let’s  go  as  we  are — I know  a small 
cafe  where  it  won’t  matter  what  we 
wear.” 

“I’ll  redo  my  face  and  be  with 
you  in  a minute.” 

The  evening  that  followed,  he 
reflected  afterward,  constituted 
the  last  carefree  hours  they  ever 
spent  together.  During  the  next 
week  Helen  grew  another  inch, 
and  by  the  end  of  the  month  she 
was  as  tall  as  he  was. 

Ill 

The  second  time  they  had  vis- 
ited him,  Doctor  Bonner’s  profes- 
sional joviality  had  failed  to  mani- 
fest Itself.  Doctor  Lindeman,  the 
specialist  to  whom  he  promptly  re- 
ferred them,  gave  Helen  another 
complete  physical,  hut  he  couldn’t 
find  anything  wrong  with  her  ei- 
ther. He  asked  her  to  tell  him  the 
history  of  her  life,  and  after  she 
complied  he  questioned  her  about 
the  years  preceding  her  eleventh 


“birthday.”  But  she  could  tell  him 
nothing.  Finally,  he  made  arrange- 
ments for  her  to  spend  a week  un- 
der observation  at  the  hospital  to 
which  he  was  attached.  At  the  end 
of  the  week  he  didn’t  have  any 
more  idea  of  what  was  wrong  with 
her  than  he  had  had  at  the  begin- 
ning of  it. 

They  tried  other  specialists, 
both  in  Buffalo  and  in  other  cities.’ 
None  of  them  could  throw  the 
slightest  light  on  the  cause  of  Hel- 
en’s gigantism.  Meanwhile,  she 
continued  to  grow,  and  as  her  size 
increased,  so,  too,  did  her  sensitiv- 
ity. To  ease  her  embarrassment, 
David  began  wearing  shoes  with 
Cuban  heels.  For  a while,  he  was 
able  to  maintain  the  illusion  that 
she  was  no  taller  than  he  was,  and 
when  she  continued  to  grow  he 
managed  to  maintain  the  illusion 
for  a while  longer  by  having  a shoe- 
maker increase  the  thickness  of  the 
heels.  But  it  was  a makeshift  sub- 
terfuge at  best,  and  at  length  he 
abandoned  it.  By  this  time,  Helen 
was  two  inches  taller  than  he  was, 
and  almost  equalled  him  in 
weight. 

The  only  aspect  of  her  affection 
that  enabled  her  to  endure  it  was 
the  fact  that  she  grew  proportion- 
ately. For  all  her  budding  giant- 
hood,  she  still  possessed  the  same 
symmetry  and  grace  "she  had 
known  before,  and  whenever  he 
saw  her  at  a distance  with  no  fa- 
miliar objects  to  compare  her  to 
she  looked  exactly  as  she  had  looked 


m WHAT  CAVBKN  of  the  i«EP 

a lew  ^lort  months  ago.  But  this 
persp<»:^ve  socmi  denied  him, 
^lor  the  tune  came,  as  he  had 
imowa  il  wcHild,  when  she  refused 
to  Jeave  the  apartment. 

Keeping  her  supplied  with  food 
posed  ho  problem  as  3«t,  but  ke^ 
iag  her  suj^lied  with  clothes  did. 
Her  shoes,  her  dresses,  her  coats — 
everything  had  to  be  made  to  or- 
der. In  view  of  the  fact  that  she 
no  longer  went  out,  the  coats  could 
have  been  dis^nsed  with,  and 
even  ^id  as  much;  but  David 
wouldn’t  hear  of  such  a thing.  He 
was  determine  that  she  should 
have  clothes  for  all  occi^ons, 
whether  she  wore  them  or  not. 

Wh^  their  first  anniversary 
came  around,  she  was  six  feet,  six 
inches  tall.  The  only  visitor  she  al- 
lowed in  the  a^rtment  was  Bar- 
bara, and  it  was  Barbara,  dropping 
in  every  other  evening,  who  was 
making  it  possible  for  Helen  to  go 
on,  David  did  all  he  could  to  keep 
up  her  moral^  insisting  over  and 
over  that  he  loved  her  more  than 
he  had  before;  yet  even  though  ^e 
knew  he  was  telling  the  truth,  the 
knowledge  wouldn’t  have  been 
enough  to  sustain  her.  She  needed 
additional  assurance  that  she  was 
still  wanted,  and  Barbara  supplied 
it 

If  anything,  David’s  wife  was 
even  lovelier  on  this,  their  first  an- 
niversary, than  she  had  been  the 
day  he  married  her.  Her  complex- 
ion should  have  been  sallow  from 
lack  dE  sunhght.  Instead,  it  was 


103 

radimit.  Moreover,  her  skin  had  a 
golden  cast,  and  seemed  to  glow 
as  though  strange  fires  burned 
within  her.  For  weeks,  he  had 
hoped  that  in  honor  of  the  occa- 
sion she  wmild  consent  to  go  out  to 
dinner  with  him.  But  when  the 
occasion  actually  arrived  even  he 
was  dubious  about  sub|ectni^ 
to  such  an  <»deal,  and  he  wm  mme 
relieved  than  disappoint^  when 
she  insisted  on  staying  home. 

He  had  a magnum  of  cham- 
pagne sent  up,  ami  eng^d  a ca- 
tering i^rvice  to  preiMire  and  de- 
liver a special  wedding  dinner. 
With  Helen’s  help,  he  set  up  die 
Christmas  tree  ^ had  biou^t 
home  that  afternoon,  and  a^r- 
waid  they  trimmed  it  together. 
Then  they  exchanged  pr^ents.  For 
David,  Helen  had  bought — via 
Barbara — a calendar  wrisi-w^h. 
For  Helen,  David  had  bought  a new 
^sel — taller,  but  not  <^3tru$ively 
so,  than  the  one  she  had — and  a 
dozen  canvases.  They  toasted  each 
other  in  champagne,  and  sat  down 
to  dinner.  The  evening  didn^t  be- 
gin  to  compare  with  their  first  eve- 
ning together  in  the  Connecticut 
c<rttage,  but  the  hours  were  pre- 
cious for  ail  that,  and  Davkl  knew 
that  he  would  never  forget  them. 

Christmas  went  its  way.  The 
New  Year  honked  its  tinselly 
horns,  and  then  was  heard  no 
more.  Helen  continued  to  grow. 
Her  growth^ate  involved  a form  of 
arithmetical  progression  now,  and 
it  seemed  to  David  diat  ev^  day 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 


104 

she  became  perceptibly  taller.  And 
as  her  height  increased,  sq,  too,  did 
his  desperation.  There  was  utterly 
nothing  he  could  do.  She  was  so 
sensitive  about  her  condition  by 
this  time  that  she  wouldn’t  have 
consulted  a specialist  even  if  he 
or  Barbara  could  have  found  one 
capable  of  helping  her.  What  both- 
ered him  almost  as  much  as  her  in- 
eluctable increase  in  size  was  the 
effect  that  severing  herself  from 
society  would  eventually  have 
upon  her.  And  there  was  yet  an- 
other source  of  worry.  He  loved 
her  more  than  he  ever  had,  and 
she  returned  both  his  affection  and 
his  passion;  but  there  was  a ludi- 
crous quality  about  their  relation- 
ship now — a ludicrous  quality  that 
had  imposed  a psychological  hand- 
icap upon  a race  that  was  already 
half  lost.  The  knowledge  that 
eventuaHy  the  race  would  be  lost 
altogether  preyed  upon  his  mind 
with  p'eater  and  greater  frequerrcy 
as  winter  gradually  gave  way  to 
spring  and  the  young  giantess  in 
his  house  attained  ever  more  ter- 
rifying proportions.  He  began 
awakening  just  before  dawn  and 
lying  sleepless  between  cool  sheets, 
staring  at  the  outsize  bed  next  to 
his  own  and  listening  to  her 
breathing,  and  sometimes  his 
thoughts  would  match  the  gray 
cast  of  the  early-morning  sky  and 
the  grayness  would  linger  with 
him  all  through  the  day. 

No,  it  could  not  go  on  like  this. 
There  was  nothing  he  could  do 


about  her  gianthood,  but  there  was 
something  he  could  do  aboi^  her 
environment.  The  beach  house, 
with  its  high  ceilings^andr  its  com- 
modious rooms,  would  do  for  now. 
Later  on,  more  permanent  arrange- 
ments could  be  made.  But  he  need- 
ed help ; he  could  no  longer  hoe  his 
row  alone.  On  a rainy  evening  late 
in  April,  he  went  to  see  Barbara. 

The  rain  was  coming  down  in 
sheets  when  he  parked  his  car  in 
her  driveway  and  ran  across  the 
lawn  to  the  verandah.  As  he 
climbed  the  steps,  deja  vu  tran- 
siently tinged  his  thoughts,  bring- 
ing a frown  to  his  forehead.  Was 
Barbara  somehow  associated  in  has 
mind  with  rain?  Would  she  be 
someday?  . . . 

From  beyond  the  door  came  the 
clatter  of  typewriter  keys.  He  rang 
the  bell,  and  the  sound  ceased. 
Presently  he  saw  her  coming  down 
the  hall.  She  was  wearing  slacks 
and  an  old  sweater.  Her  dark- 
brown  hair,  always  recalcitrMit, 
had  an  almost  savage  mien  about 
it  as  it  tumbled  halfway  to  her 
shoulders.  Her  cool,  gray  eyes 
seemed  to  see  him  standing  on  the 
verandah  even  before  she  switched 
on  the  outside  light.  They  regis- 
tered surprise  for  a fleeting  second, 
then  returned  to  their  cool  gray 
selves.  “Come  in.  David,”  she  said, 
opening  the  door.  “It’s  not  a fit 
nig^it  for  either  man  or  dog  to  be 
abroad 

He  almost  abandoned  his  plan 


2K  VICAT  CAVZRN  Of  THE  SEEP 

and  diere.  He  nerer  b^n 
to  cope  with  her  cynici^  be- 
cause  he  had  never  been  able  to 
determine  how  much  ol  it  was  di- 
f^ted  toward  him  m particular 
and  how  much  of  it  was  directed 
tinvard  the  world  in  general.  Only 
his  desperation  saw  him  through. 

Barbara  helped  him  off  with  his 
trenchcoat,  hung  it  on  a rack  in 
the  hall,  and  showed  him  into  the 
living  roOTn.  '“How's  Helen?” 

He  shook  his  head.  “The  same.” 

She  sat  down  on  a low-backed 
sofa  and  he  sat  down  facing  her  in 
a low-backed  chair.  Through  a 
doorway  on  his  right  he  could  see 
die  den  in  which  she  had  been 
working.  A rebuilt  standard  stood 
on  a desk  cluttered  with  papers. 
There  were  reference  books  piled 
everywhere.  At  the  rear  of  the  liv- 
ing room,  another  doorway  gave 
into  an  unlighted  dining  rbom.  On 
the  wall  above  the  »>fa  hung  a 
framed  collotype  of  Sargent's 
"Daughters  of  Edward  D.  Boit”. 
David  remembered  the  picture 
well  from  the  days  when  he  was 
courting  Helen. 

He  leaned  forward,  rested  his 
elbows  on  his  knees,  and  looked 
down  at  his  hands.  "Barbara,  I 
want  you  to  come  to  work  for  me. 
I want  you  to  help  me  take  care  of 
Helen.” 

There  was  a silence.  Presently 
a lighter  clicked  on,  and  a moment 
later  a bluish  veil  of  cigarette 
smoke  came  between  them.  Final- 
ly, he  heard  her  vcrice:  **You're 


105 

like  everybody  ehe  in  this  tlaker- 
toy  utopia,  aren’t  you?  You  think 
that  the  whole  thing  was  set  up  for 
you  aiMl  you  alone,  and  that  when 
crevices  appear  in  your  walls  every- 
body should  drop  whoever  he  or 
she  is  doing  and  come  to  help  you 
shore  them  up.” 

He  lifted  his  ^ze  to  her  face. 
Her  gray  eyes  were  even  coolar 
than  they  had  been  before.  "You 
can  go  on  writing,”  he  said.  “There 
shouldn’t  be  too  many  demands  on 
your  time — and  I’ll  pay  you  what- 
ever you  say  the  iob  is  worth.'’ 

"Money  heals  all  wounds, 
doesn’t  it,  O noble  physician? 
Well,  1 can  assure  y^KJ  that  it 
won’t  heal  mine.  But  that’s  beside 
the  point.”  She  got  up  and  walked 
over  to  the  mantel  and  kaned 
against  it,  staring  at  the  wall.  Ab- 
ruptly, she  turned  and  faced  him. 
“Yes,  I’ll  come  to  «vork  for  you, 
noble  David.  But  not  because 
you’ve  offered  me  a sinecure  that 
won’t  interfere  with  what,  pre- 
sumably, I really  want  to  do.  I'll 
come  to  work  for  you  because 
you've  provided  me  with  an  es- 
cape route  from  futility.  Because 
you’ve  freed  me  from  the  neces- 
sity of  writing  simpering  boy- 
meets-girl  fairy  tales  to  earn  my 
daily  bread.  I’ll  wash  and  I'll  iron 
and  rU  cook  and  I’ll  sew,  but  I'll 
never  again  demean  my  intelli- 
gence by  using  it  to  turn  out  fairy 
tales  about  silly  papa:  dolls  who 
meet  each  other  on  planes  and 
trains  and  irafts  and  fall  two- 


106 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTISN 


dimensionally  in  love  between 
Lucky  Strike  and  Betty  Crocker 
ads.  Yes,  I’ll  come  to  work  for  you, 
noble  David.  Indeed,  I will!” 

Dismayed,  he  said,  “But  1 don’t 
want  you  to  give  up  writing,  Bar- 
bara. That’s  the  last  thing  in  the 
world  that  I want.” 

"But  don’t  you  see? — it’s  what 
I want.  A person  can  go  on  doing 
something  in  good  conscience  only 
so  long  as  she  believes  in  what  she’s 
doing.  But  when  she  stops  believ- 
ing, it’s  time  for  her  to  stop.  I 
should  have  stopped  long  ago,  but 
sornehow  I couldn’t  bring  myself 
to.  Now,  I’ve  made  up  my  mind 
. . . How  tall  is  Helen  now?” 

He  shrugged.  "An  inch  or  so 
taller  than  when  you  saw  her  last, 
I suppose.  I guess  it’s  a process  that 
goes  on  forever.  ” 

“Well  she  can’t  go  on  living  in 
that  apartment — it  must  seem  like 
a prison  to  her.  We’ll  have  to  take 
her  some  place  else.” 

He  nodded  eagerly,  aware  that 
his  burden  had  already  grown 
lighter.  "Yes.  We  can  stay  at  the 
beach  house  till  the  cottagers  start 
coming  out.  She’ll  have  plenty  of 
freedom  there.  Meanwhile,  I can 
look  around  for  a better  place.  If 
I have  to,  I can  buy  a whole  farm 
and  fence  it  in.  An  isolated  one 
with  a big  house.  There’re  plenty 
of  them  in  the  hills  beyond  Bay- 
ville.”  He  got  to  his  feet.  “I’ll  go 
out  to  the  resort  tomorrow  and  get 
the  place  ready.  You  can  be  pack- 
ing and  making  arrangements  to 


close  up  the  house,  and  later  on  in 
the  week  I’ll  buy  a van  and  we’ll 
move.” 

She  faced  him  across  the  room. 
"I  make  lousy  coffee,  but  you’re 
welcome  to  a cup  before  you  go.” 

“I  think  I’d  better  take  a rain 
check.”  (Now  why  had  he  used 
that  expression?  he  wondered.) 
"Helen  expects  me  back  right 
away.” 

“You  still  love  her  very  much, 
don’t  you.” 

"Of  course.” 

"I’ll  bet  you’d  still  love  her  if 
she  grew  to  be  a hundred  feet  tall 
. . . Would  you?” 

He  felt  uncomfortable.  “I  sup- 
pose 1 would.” 

The  cool  gray  eyes  were  full 
upon  him.  "And  it  came  to  pass  in 
an  evening-tide  that  David  walked 
upon  the  roof  of  the  king’s  house', 
and  from  the  roof  he  saw  a woman 
washing  herself;  and  the  woman 
was  very  beautiful  to  look  upon 
. . . And  thus  did  David  -see 
Bathsheba  and  fall  in  love.  But 
unknown  to  him  he  was  victimized 
by  a state  of  mind  and  a set  of 
circumstances,  and  regardless  of 
what  woman  he  had  seen  at  that 
particular  moment  he  would  have 
fallen  in  love.” 

"Which  means?”  David  said, 
frowning. 

“That  Bathsheba  was  in  exactly 
the  right  place  at  exactly  the  right 
time.  I’ll  get  your  coat.” 

He  followed  her  into  the  hall. 
Outside,  the  rain  drummed  on  the 


IN  WHAT  CAVERN  OF  THE  DEEP 

verandah  roof,  made  gurgling 
sounds  hi  the*  eave  troughs.  Her 
hand  touched  his  as  she  helped 
him  on  with  his  coat.  It  was  the 
briefest  of  contacts,  hut  suddenly 
be  knew.  Knew  the  way  it  was 
with  her  and  the  way  it  might  have 
been — and  still  might  be — with 
him.  And  simultaneously  he  knew 
that  far  from  simplifying  his  prob- 
lem he  had  merely  complicated  it. 

She  opened  the  door.  “Good 
night,"  he  said  without  looking  at 
her,  and  hurried  out  into  the  ram. 

IV 

The  last  shoemaker  had  laughed 
in  his  face,  and  it  seemed  that  he 
had  been  walking  now  for  hours. 
He  knew  that  this  could  not  be  so, 
that  the  time-lapse  had  been  to  a 
large  extent  subjective.  Hours 
would  have  brought  on  the  winter 
night,  and  dusk  was  still  on  hand. 
Lights  were  more  in  evidence, 
though — street  lights  and  car 
lights,  and  the  lights  of  colored 
bulbs  strung  on  pine  and  spruce 
and  ornamental  arborvitae.  Barab- 
bas  would  have  loved  such  a gaudy 
display,  and  maybe  that  was 
where  everyone  had  gone  wrong  in 
the  first  place.  Paying  lip-service 
to  the  one  and  groveling  at  the  feet 
of  the  other.  Tinsel  twinkles  like  a 
two-edged  sword,  and  merchants 
are  highwaymen  in  houses.  Give  us 
this  days  your  daily  dollar,  for  ours 
is  the  kingdom  of  commerce.  It 
was  Barabbas — not  Christmas — 
Eve. 


107 

David  fed  the  iron  kettle  of  a 
gaimt,  bell-clanging  Santa,  and 
turned  down  a different  street.  The' 
lights  were  coming  into  full  bloom 
now — the  reds  and  greens  and  yel- 
lows of  the  Druid  lights  and  the 
bright  glares  of  the  automobile 
lights  and  the  fluorescent  fires  of 
the  store  lights.  The  garden  of  the 
city  knew  not  Gethsemane,  but  it 
knew  Prosperity.  Hordes  of  last- 
minute  shoppers  trooped  in  and 
out  of  doorways.  Carolers  raised 
pious  voices  to  stars  that  neither 
heard  nor  cared.  The  annual  emo- 
tional binge  was  at  fever  pitch.  To- 
morrow, there  would  be  relatives 
and  turkey,  and  stodgy  afternoons. 
Dusk,  then  sleep  . . . the  rude 
awakening.  Even  Barabbas  should 
have  known  that  gold  and  glitter 
do  not  make  for  better  dawns. 

Snow  began  drifting  down  be- 
tween the  rows  of  buildings  in 
large  and  gentle  flakes.  The  ''poetry 
of  earth  is  never  dead  . . . but  ah 
for  the  poetry  of  a new  parr  of 
shoes! 

There  was  a shoe  store  up  ahead, 
but  David’s  footsteps  did  not 
quicken.  It  was  the  creators  of 
shoes  whom  he  sought,  not  the 
sellers.  Today,  “shoemaker”  was  a 
misleading  word.  It  meant  “re- 
pairer” not  “maker”.  Today,  ma- 
chines made  shoes,  and  vague  peo- 
ple in  vague  factories  helped  the 
machines  along;  but  for  one  man 
to  take  on  the  alone,  for  a shoe- 
maker to  make  a pair  of  shoes?  — 
“You  must  be  craze,  mister.  I fix 


im 

the  shoes— yes-  Make  the  shoes? 
Make  such  hig  shoes?  You  must  be 
ciazeP 

When  he  came  abreast  of  the 
store  he  topped  and  looked 
into  one  of  its  two  windows.  It  was 
the  woman’s  side^  and  all  mmuier 
of  feminine  footwear  was  on  dis- 
play. There  were  high-heeled  shoes 
and  low-heeled  shoes  and  shoes 
with  pointed  toes;  there  were 
scuffs  and  step-ins  and  sandals. 
A pair  of  white  pumps  caught  his 
eyes,  and  he  stood  there  staring 
at  them,  shoulders  hunched  against 
the  cold  and  the  snow  and  the 
passers-by,  ears  deaf  to  the 
Christmas  carol  oozing  ingratia* 
atingly  from  a loud-speaker  above 
his, head.  The  sighing  of  the  lake 
along  the  shore  came  sweetly  hack 
to  him;  he  smelled  the  sweetness  of 
the  summer  night.  Kneeling  before 
her  in  the  sand,  he  slipped  the 
white  pumps  on  her  feet,  his  fin- 
gers trembling  to  the  touch  of  her 
smooth  cool  skin.  The  starlight 
seemed  to  intensify,  to  become 
rain,  and  the  rain  fell  soundlessly 
all  around  him  . . . How  beautiful 
were  thy  feet  -With  shoesl  . . . 

Sitting  in  the  house  that  after* 
noon^  he  hadn’t  been  able  to  stand 
it  any  longer.  The  small  house  on 
the  hill  that  overlooked  the  ad- 
joining farms  he  had  bought  that 
spring.  The  small  house  in  the 
hills  beyond  Bayville  that  he  and 
Barbara  shared  like  brother  and 
sister.  Through  the  living-room 
window  he  had  looked  down  die 


FANTASY  AND  6C1£NC»  FiCTKn^ 

snow-<x>vered  hillside  to  the  big 
house  where  Helen  lived — die  big 
house  that  he  had  remodeled  him- 
self and  to  which  he  and  Barbara 
had  brought  her  in  the  van  when 
the  cottagers  had  ^rted  coming 
out  weekends  to  cut  their  little 
tracts  of  grass.  The  big  house  with 
the  outsize  front  door  and 
raised  ceilings  and  the  knocked- 
out  partitions;  the  big  house  wl^re 
Helen  spent  her  lonely  giant’s  life. 
There  were  woods  all  around,  and 
enclosing  the  grounds  was. an  elec- 
tric fence.  There  was  a small  lake 
where  she  could  swim  during  the 
warm  months,  and  there  were  fields 
where  she  could  run  and  play.  The 
people  of  the  nearby  hamlet 
Timberville  were  unaware  of  h«: 
existence,  and,  God  willir^ 
would  remain  so.  Barbara  made 
her  clothes  and  cooked  her  fcMxi, 
and  he  had  made  the  bed  on  which 
she  slept  and  the  chairs  on  which 
she  sat  and  the  table  at  which  she 
ate.  He  had  made  her  many  special 
things,  but  he  couldn’t  make  her 
special  shoes.  Shoe  manufacturers 
would  have  laughed  at  him  if  he 
had  told  them  what  he  wanted,  or, 
even  worse,  have  tried  to  find  out 
why.  Yes,  it  was  Barabbas — not 
Chri  stmas — Eve . 

A package  brushed  against  bis 
shoulder.  “Excuse  me,”  someone 
said.  He  did  not  look  to  see  who  it 
was,  but  continued  on  down  -the 
street.  There  was  only  one  more 
name  on  the  list  of  shoemakers  that 
he  had  compiled  from  the  Buffalo 


IN  WHAT  CAVERN  OF  THE  DEEP 

directory  before  climbing  into  his 
piclcup  and  setting  out.  The  shop 
was  in  the  next  block. 

He  would  try  once  more. 

It  was  a narrow  shop,  sand- 
wiched between  a false-fronted 
haberdashery  and  a false-fronted 
variety  store.  A single  light  burned 
in  the  window — a sad  little  light 
that  hung  from  the  ceiling  and  did 
more  to  betray  the  fact  that  the 
ceiling  needed  painting  than  it  did 
to  reveal  the  concomitant  fact  that 
the  shop  was  open.  Flaked  letters 
on  the  window  glass  said.  Shoes 
Repaired  Wile  U Wait,  and  above 
the  narrow  doorway  other  flaked 
letters  proclaimed  the  establish- 
ment’s name;  FRANCONFS 
SHOE  SHINE  PARLOUR. 

A stooped  old  man  was  standing 
behind  a small  counter,  buffiing  a 
pair  of  oxfords  on  an  electric  buf- 
fer. At  David’s  entry,  he  laid  the 
oxfords  aside,  turned  off  the  buf- 
fer, and  faced  the  counter.  He 
made  an  almost  imperceptible  bow. 
“Good  evening,  sir,”  he  said,  giving 
the  “evening”  three  meticulous  syl- 
lables. “I  am  Mr.  Franconi.” 

“Good  evening,"  David  said.  “I 
wonder  if  you  can  help  me.” 

Mr.  Franconi  stood  up  a little 
straighter.  This  did  not  make  him 
tall,  but  it  did  something  for  his 
stooped  shoulders  that  definitely 
had  needed  to  be  done.  “It  is  shoes 
you  want,  sir?”  he  asked,  eagerness 
in  his  voice. 

“Yes.” 


109 

“New  sboes?* 

"Hand-made  shoes.  Women’s. 
But — ” 

Mr.  Franconi  stood  up  strai^t- 
er  yet.  Excitement  colored  his  face, 
lent  it  an  almost  youthful  cast. 
'You  have  come  to  the  right  j^ace, 
sir.  It  has  been  many  years,  but  I, 
Anthony  Franconi,  was  once  a 
first-class  maker  of  shoes,  and  one 
does  not  easily  forget  an  art  one 
loves.  How  soon  do  you  want  them, 
sir?” 

Hope  had  come  alive  in  David’s 
breast.  “Tonight.  They’re  to  be  a 
Christmas  present.” 

“Tonight!”  Mr.  Pranconi 
breathed  in,  breathed  out.  “I — 
I am  not  sure,  sir,  that  I can — ” 

David  said,  “It  may  be  even 
more  difficult  than  you  think.  They 
are  not  . . . ordinary  shoes.” 

“They  are  not?” 

David  swallowed.  “I  want  them 
to  be  white.  And  they’re  to  be  quite 
big.” 

“How  big,  sir?” 

Again,  David  swallowed.  Then 
he  took  a notebook  out  of  his  pocket 
and  opened  it  to  the  page  where  he 
had  set  down  the  dimensions  he 
had  carefully  calculated  before 
leaving  for  the  city.  After  he  read 
them,  a silence  settled  in  the  shop. 

At  length,  Mr.  Franconi  asked, 
“You  said  they  were  to  be  a Christ- 
mas present?” 

David  nodded.  "To  show  you 
I’m  sincere  I'll  pay  you  right  now  if 
you’ll  say  you  can  make  them.  Can 
you  make  them?” 


110 

*‘No,”  Mr.  Fraaconi  said. 

, A heaviness  came  over  David;  a 
weariness  such  as  he  had  never 
Imo^wD.  He  said,  "Thanks  anyway 
lor  not  laughing,”  and  started  to 
turn  away. 

*TVhy  did  you  wait  till  the 
last  ininute?”  Mr.  Franconi  asked. 
"Given  enough  time,  1 could  have 
made  such  shoes.” 

"I  didn’t  think.  We’d  been  wrap- 
ping her  feet  in — It  seemed  im- 
possible that — I didn^t  tiiink, 
fiat's  all.  Good  night,  Mr.  Fran- 
coni.” 

"Wait,”  Mr.  Franconi  said.  "I 
have  aich  a pair  of  shoes.” 

Disbelievin^y,  David  faced  him. 
Tcm  have  such  a ^ir?” 

"Yes.  They  are  just  about  the 
ute  you  say,  and  they  are  white.  It 
is  almost  like  providence,  is  it  not? 
I make  th«n  for  an  advertisement 
display  five  years  ago,  and  the  shoe 
company  who  give  me  the  order  say 
that  after  the  campaign  is  over  they 
are  going  to  cut  the  leather  and 
use  it  to  make  regular  shoes.  So  I 
tell  them  I will  buy  them  back.  It  is 
a shame  for  such  workmanship  to 
be  tom  apart — workmanship  their 
factories  cannot  even  dream  of . . . 
The  shoes  are  stored  above  the 
shop.  You  would  like  to  see  them?” 

"Yes,”  David  said.  “Very  much.” 

He  followed  Mr.  Franconi  up  a 
narrow  flight  of  stairs.  Theoldman 
switched  on  a ceiling  light,  reveal- 
ing a long  narrow  room  cluttered 
with  odds  and  ends.  "Over  here, 
sir." 


FANTASY  AND  MdMUCE  FteTSON 

In  a dim  and  dusty  cmrner,  he 
drew  back  a ^ngth  of  canvas. 
"They  are  beautiful,  are  they  not?” 

David  gasped.  Then  he  sloped 
forward  and  touched  die  nearer 
shxie.  It  was  as  soft  as  ioam.  The 
line  of  the  heel  and  the  instep  was 
as  trim  as  the  line  of  a clipper  ^p. 
The  toe  was  slightly  pointed,  and, 
telatively  speaking,  the  heel  was  of 
medium  height.  The  material  was 
calfskin,  and  as  white  as  new- 
fallen  snow.  ‘"Burke  didn’t  under' 
stand.” 

"Burke?”  Mr.  Franconi  asked. 

David  smiled.  Where  cold  had 
once  resided  around  his  heart, 
warmth  reveled.  "Burke  was  mi 
eighteenth-century  British  states- 
man who  thought  he  Imew  a great 
deal  about  beauty  ...  1 woukl  like 
to  buy  the  shoes,  Mr.  Franconi,  if 
you  will  be  so  kmd  as  to  sell  them 
to  me.” 

The  old  man  was  looking  at  him 
puzzledly,  “You  have  a frieiul  who 
is  in  shoes,  perhaps?  Who  wishes 
to  put  on  a display?” 

*‘No.  But  they  will  be  on  display 
in  a way.  Will  you  sell  them  to  me, 
Mr.  Franconi?” 

“They  will  not  be  tom  apart?” 

'"Never.  I can  promise  you  that.” 

"That  is  what  is  important.  For 
years,  they  have  lain  up  here,  col- 
lecting dust.  Fine  shoes  should  be 
worn.  Of  course,  I know  that  such 
shoes  as  these  cannot  be  worn,  b^t 
they  should  serve  a useful  purpose. 
You  have  a car,  sir?” 

"I  have  a pickup.  It’s  in  a park- 


IN  WHAT  CAVERN  OF  THE  DEEP 

ing  lot  a dozen  blocks  from  here.” 

“Come  then,  we  will  take  the 
shoes  downstairs,  and  you  will  go 
and  get  your  pickup  and  we  will 
load  them  on.” 

Carrying  a shoe  apiece,  they 
descended  single  file  to  the  shop. 
From  a nearby  phone  booth  David 
called  a cab,  and  when  it  arrived 
he  went  for  his  pickup.  The  aspect 
of  the  world  had  changed.  The 
sound  of  carols  was  haunting 
now;  there  was  beauty  in  the  mul- 
ticolored lights.  Barabbas  had  for- 
saken the  streets,  and  people  were 
going  home  to  firesides  and  fami- 
lies. David  could  go  home  now,  too. 
For  now  he  had  the  means  to  fill  a 
Christmas  stocking.  How  beautiful 
are  thy  feet  with  shoes! 

When  he  parked  the  pickup  at 
the  rear  of  the  small  house,  Bar- 
bara came  out  on  the  back  porch. 
"David,  where  in  the  world  have 
you  been?  It’s  almost  midnight!” 

He  got  out  of  the  cab  and  walked 
around  to  the  truck  bed.  “Barbara, 
wait’ll  you  seel  It  was  a miracle  al- 
most. Come  here.  Look!” 

Hugging  herself  to  thwart  the 
cold,  she  descended  the  porch 
steps.  He  threw  back  the  tarp  with 
which  he  had  covered  his  pur- 
chase. “Look!”  he  said  again. 

It  had  stopped  snowing,  and 
the  stars  were  out,  and  to  him  the 
shoes  had  something  of  the  aspect 
of  a pair  of  Cinderella  slippers.  But 
not  to  Barbara.  She  took  one  look 
at  them,  then  swung  around  and 


111 

faced  him.  “David,  you’re  a fool! 
After  all  the  trouble  weVe  gone  to 
keep  this  thing  a secret,  buying  our 
supplies  in  different  towns  and  let- 
ting on  that  , we’re  a pair  of  eccen- 
tric writers  so  that  no  one  will  come 
near  us,  you  go  out  and  pull  a trick 
like  this!  Why,  it’s  like  hanging  up 
a sign  with  Ae  word  ‘giant’  on  it 
and  with  an  arrow  underneath 
pointing  to  our  door!  You  know 
how  people  are.  You  know  how 
newspapers  are.  How  could  you  do 
such  a quixotic  thing?” 

Hurt,  he  said,  “I  bought  them  in 
the  city.  From  an  obscure  shoe- 
maker the  world  forgot  about  years 
ago.  No  one’ll  ever  know.” 

“You  think  no  one  ever  will.  But 
you  don’t  know.  In  our  position  we 
can’t  afford  to  take  chances.  We 
just  don’t  have  enough  privacy 
to  risk  arousing  curiosity.  We — ” 
Suddenly,  she  paused,  looking  at 
him.  A moment  ago,  he  had  been 
standing  tall  and  straight.  Now, 
his  shoulders  had  slumped,  aftd  he 
was  staring  at  the  ground.  “Poor 
David,”  she  said  softly.  And  then, 
“They  are  lovely,  aren’t  they?  Come 
on,  we’II  take  them  in  and  wrap 
them.” 

His  shoulders  straightened,  and 
he  looked  eagerly  into  her  eyes. 
“Do  we  have  a big  enough  box? 
And  enough  wrapping  paper?” 

“I  saved  the  box  that  the  new 
sewing  machine  came  in.  That 
should  do.  Come  on,  we’ll  manage 
somehow.” 

They  carried  the  shoes  through 


U2 

tbe  and  into  the  living 

loom.  The  floor  was  covered  with 
holts  <^co,  percale,  and  jersey. 
David  cleared  a.  space,  and  they  set 
to  woric.  The  sewing-machine  box 
proved  to  bo  large  enough,  but 
wrapping  it  took  all  of  the  Qirist- 
mas  wrapping  paper  they  had. 
'^Darn!”  Barbara  exclaimed,  “Now 
I won’t  he  able  to  wrap  yowr  pres- 
ent.” 

“And  I won’t  be  able  to  wrap 
yours.” 

She  smiled  at  him  across  the 
painted  patterns  of  Christmas 
bells  and  holly,  "We’H  have  to  put 
thon  under  the  tree  when  die 
Other  of  us  isn't  looking.  Come  on 
out  in  the  kitchen  and  have  yovir 
supper^l  kept  it  wanning  in  the 
oven.” 

He  ate  at  the  kitchen  table,  and 
she  sat  o|^site  him,  sipping  cof- 
fee. The  meal  was  delicious.  All  of 
Btfbaia’s  meals  were.  There  was 
nothing  she  couldn’t  do,  and  every- 
diing  she  did,  she  did  well.  When 
Ik  finished,  he  pushed  back  his 
chair  and  ^ood  up.  “I’ll  help  you 
with  the  dishes,  we’ll  take  the 
present  down  to  the  big  house.” 

She  had  been  looking  at  him  all 
the  while  he  ate.  Now,  she  looked 
away.  “Never  mind  the  dishes.  You 
take  it  down  now,  and  I’ll  join  you 
later,” 

“All  d^t.  1 think  I’ll  use  the 
pickup.” 

After  placing  die  box  in  the 
truck  bed,  he  climbed  into  the  cab, 


FAKrA.SY  AND  SCiENC£  FICTION 

Started  up  the  motor,  and  drove 
down  the  winding  lane  that  led  to 
the  big  house.  Once,  he  had 
in  the  big  house  himself — before  it 
had  grown  too  small.  The  shutters 
were  closed,  but  some  of  them 
didn’t  fit  snugly,  and  in  places 
crevices  of  yellow  li^t  warmed  the 
darkness.  When  he  came  opposite 
the  portico,  he  turned  the  pickup 
around  and  backed  up  to  the  front 
steps.  He  braked,  turned  off  tbe 
motor,  and  got  out.  The  tailgate 
was  on  a level  with  the  portico  floor. 
Shouldering  the  box,  he  walked 
over  to  the  outsize  doorway.  He  felt 
proud  when  she  opened  the  dcKir. 
Her  giant’s  beauty  rained  down 
around  him  as  he  stepped  across 
the  threshold.  He  carried  the  box 
across  the  outsize  room  and  set  it 
under  die  big  pine  tree  diat  sbe 
had  trimmed.  She  was  wearing  the 
white  dress  that  Barbara  had  made 
for  her  out  of  one  of  the  surplus 
parachutes  he  had  tx>ught  It  was 
caught  around  her  waist  in  deft 
plaits  and  rose  up  like  filmy  clouds 
around  her  Junoesque  breasts  and 
fell  like  swirling  snow  around  the 
columns  of  her  lovely  legs.  The  sur- 
prise and  pleasure  on  her  face  was 
like  a sunrise. 

“Merry  Christmas,  darling,”  he 
said.  “Happy  Anniversary.” 

She  knelt  beside  the  box  like  a 
little  girl.  She  tore  away  the  wr^- 
pings  with  gigantic  girlish  fingers. 
When  she  saw  the  shoes  she  began 
to  cry. 


IN  WHAT  CAVERN  OF  THE  DEEP 

V 

That  spring,  despite  David’s  ob- 
jections, Helen  had  begun  swim- 
ming in  the  lake  as  soon  as  the  ice 
melted.  The  temperature  of  the 
water  didn’t  daunt  her  in  the  least, 
and  he  began  to  suspect  that 
changes  other  than  those  pertain- 
ing directly  to  her  increase  in  size 
were  taking  place  in  her.  But  he 
didn’t  have  a chance  to  give  the 
matter  much  thought,  for,  late  in 
April,  an  incident  occurred  that 
caused  him  to  decide  overnight  to . 
sell  the  farm  and  to  depart  for  the 
west  coast. 

Thinking  back  later  on,  he  real- 
ized that  he  had  been  a fool  to 
think  that  the  citizens  of  Timber- 
ville  would  go  on  respecting  his 
electric  fence  and  his  no-trespass- 
ing signs  forever.  No  doubt,  most 
of  them  wbuld  have,  but  it  had 
been  inevitable  from  the  beginning 
that  at  least  one  of  them  would  not. 
The  exception  to  the  rule,  whom 
Helen  described  as  "a  gray-haired 
scarecrow  of  a man”  when  she  told 
the  story  afterward,  got  past  the 
fence  somehow  (probably  by  wrig- 
gling in  under  it^,  walked  through 
the  woods,  and  came  out  on  the 
shore  of  the  lake  just  as  she 
emerged  from  the  water.  When  he 
saw  her,  he  turned  into  a real 
scarecrow,  and  his  face  went  from 
dirty  white  to  white.  Finally,  it 
turned  blue.  Apparently,  he  had 
planned  on  doing  a little  poach- 
ing, for  there  was  a .22  rifle  in  the 


113 

crook  of  his  right  arm.  But  he  did 
no  poaching  that  day.  The  r^  fell 
to  the  ground,  and  a moment  later 
he  was  off  through  the  woods,  mov- 
ing at  a pace  that  would  have  done 
credit  to  the  little  animals  he  had 
come  to  kill. 

Helen  had  been  more  amused 
than  embarrassed,  but  her  unex- 
pection  reaction  didn’t  dimmish 
the  seriousness  of  the  situation.  It 
was  a foregone  conclusion  that  the 
man  would  talk  about  what  he  had 
seen,  and,  while  it  was  also  a fore- 
gone conclusion  that  no  one  would 
believe  him,  curiosity  would  be 
sparked  and  the  farm  would  be  the 
center  of  it.  Sooner  or  later,  others 
would  manage  to  get  past  the 
fence,  and  it  would  be  only  a mat- 
ter of  time  before  someone  spotted 
Helen’s  footprints  or  Helen  her- 
self. The  ball  would  start  rolling 
for  real  then,  and  before  long  die 
newspapers  would  take  up  the 
story. 

David  had  known  aU  along  that 
there  was  only  one  place  that  could 
provide  Helen  with  the  privacy  she 
needed — Bijou-de-mer,  his  island 
in  the  Coral  Sea.  But  he  had  put 
off  taking  her  there  because  it  rep- 
resented a place  of  no  return.  He 
knew  now  that  he  could  put  off 
taking  her  there  no  longer. 

He  knew  also  that  there  was 
only  one  way  the  job  could  be  ac- 
complished without  betraying  her 
secret. 

On  the  morning  after  the  inci- 
dent, he  drove  the  pickup  into  the 


/ 


114 


city,  sold  it,  and  brought  a tractor 
a thirty'foot  trailer.  He  had 
never  let  his  chauffeur’s  license  ex- 
pire, so  all  he  had  to  do  to  get  the 
job  on  die  road  was  to  get  the  nec- 
essary license  plates  and  to  tal^e 
out  Ae  necessary  insurance.  This 
done,  he  visited  Gordon  Rawley, 
gave  him  the  Iceys  to  the  big  and  the 
small  houses,  and  told  him  to 
arrange  for  the  sale  of  both  farms. 
Then  he  gave  Rawley  a blank 
check  and  asked  him  to  get  him  a 
master’s  certificate,  real  or  forged, 
and  to  send  it  to  him  in  care  of  the 
Tacoma  ship-building  concern  of 
Reese  and  Harrison,  Inc.  Rawley 
objected  at  first,  hut  at  length  he 
gave  in,  and  David  departed,  say- 
ing he  would  get  in  touch  with  him 
later. 

His  next  stop  was  a public 
phone  booth.  Here,  he  put  in  a call 
to  Reese  and  Harrison,  Inc.,  and 
by  offering  them  a handsome  bonus 
got  them  to  agree  to  make  certain 
changes  in  the  Nereid  and  to  have 
it  ready  and  waiting  for  him  a 
week  hence.  Then  he  climbed  into 
the  tractor  and  drove  back  to  the 
farm. 

He  and  Helen  and  Barbara 
spent  the  rest  of  the  day  loading 
the  supplies  and  the  other  items 
they  would  need  into  the  trailer. 
They  piled  boxes,  trunks,  and  suit- 
cases £^inst  the  head  and  secured 
them  in  place  by  means  of  heavy 
eye-screws  and  a stout  clothesline. 
There  were  eight  mattresses  avail- 
able— the  six  that  Hel^  slept  on 


FANTASY  AND  SCrENCE  FICTION 

and  the  ones  on  David’s  and  Bar- 
bara's l»ds.  They  arranged  them 
two  abreast  on  the  floor  of  the  trail- 
er and  covered  them  with  blankets. 
In  the  remaining  space  they  stored 
the  sewing  machine  and  the  bolts 
of  dress  goods. 

After  the  evening  meal,  David 
put  up  brackets  on  the  trailer’s  in- 
ner walls  for  the  three  6-voIt  flash- 
lamps  they  had  on  hand,  and  Bar- 
bara began  roasting  the  three  large 
cuts  of  beef  that  remained  in  the 
deepfreeze.  The  brackets  finished, 
David  installed  the  flashlamps; 
then  he  cut  several  inconspicuous 
vents  in  each  of  the  side  walls.  To- 
ward dawn,  Barbara  dyed  her  hair 
blond,  and  David  and  Helen  went 
down  to  the  big  house,  hauled 
the  outsize  furniture  outside,  and 
burned  it.  By  sunrise,  they  were  on 
the  road. 

A few  miles  west  of  Bayville, 
David  pulled  into  a small  filling 
station  and  gassed  up.  Had  he  for- 
gotten anything?  He  didn’t  think 
he  had.  Barbara  had  faked  a bill  of 
lading  showing  a fictitious  cargo  of 
furniture  destined  for  a fi.ctitious 
factory  in  Tacoma;  he  was  travel- 
ing under  his  own  name,  and  she 
was  traveling  as  his  wife  Helen;  he 
had  a thousand  dollars  in  cash  and 
a check  book  in  which  he  could 
write  five-figure  amounts  should 
the  occasion  arise;  among  the  sup- 
plies in  the  trailer  was  an  easy-to- 
erect  sportsman’s  tent  in  which  he 
could  sleep  nights  while  Barbara 
bedded  down  in  the  comnKxlious 


IN  WHAT  CAV3P»f  OF  THE  DKP 

cab.  No,  he  hadn’t  forgotten  any- 
diing — he  was  sure  he  hadn’t. 

Nerertheless,  he  had.  He  had 
forgotten  that  when  people  burn 
their  bridges  behind  them  and  take 
to  the  open  road  the  moral  traces 
that  otherwise  would  have  been 
strong  enough  to  keep  them  in  line 
sometimes  snap. 

Owing  to  the  nature  of  his  cargo, 
David  ruled  out  throughways  and 
stuck  to  the  regular  highways 
where  it  was  possible,  though  sel- 
dom easy,  to  find  secluded  spots  to 
spend  the  night.  Invariably,  this 
involved  turning  off  the  main 
route  and  driving  a considerable 
distance  down  some  unfrequented 
country  road,  but  it  enabled  Helen 
to  get  the  exercise  she  needed. 

On  the  third  night,  the  road  he 
chose  wound  through  an  extensive 
woods  to  the  shore  of  a small  lake. 
The  place  was  ideal,  with  no  sign 
of  human  habitations  anywhere 
save  for  a few  deserted  cottages  on 
the  opposite  shore.  After  “spotting” 
the  trailer  in  a clearing  some  dis- 
tance back  from  the  beach,  he 
pitched  the  sportsman’s  tent  in  a 
grove  of  willows  that  came  almost 
down  to  the  water’s  edge.  Despite 
the  time  of  the  year,  Helen  went 
for  a swim,  while  Barbara  busied 
herself  preparing  supper  on  the 
small  gasoline  stove  they  had 
bought  on  their  second  day  on  the 
road.  They  ate  on  the  beach,  in  the 
chill  wind  blowing  in  from  the 
north.  Helen,  although  still  wet 
&omher  swim,  didn’t  seem  to  mind 


as 

the  cold  at  aH;  but  the  wind  went 
right  through  David,  and  he  saw 
that  Barbara  was  shivering. 

It  had  been  a bad  day  for  both 
of  them.  Shortly  before  noon,  one 
of  the  inner  rear  tires  of  die  trailer 
had  blown,  and  he  had  put  in  a 
grueling  hour  and  a half  changing 
it,  with  Barbara  helping  as  best  she 
could . An  hour  later,  the  spare  had 
gone,  and  he  had  done  then  what 
he  should  have  done  in  the  first 
place — driven  on  to  the  nearest 
truck  stop.  After  a delay  of  another 
hour  they  had  hit  the  road  again, 
with  the  original  tire  repaired  and 
serving  as  a spare,  and  a brand 
new  one  supplanting  it.  Then,  less 
than  an  hour  later,  one  of  the  in- 
ner rear  tires  of  the  tractor  had 
blown,  and  another  hour  and  a 
half  had  gone  down  the  drain.  Yes, 
it  had  been  a very  bad  day. 

He  wondered  if  Barbara  was  as 
tired  as  he  was.  As  discouraged 
and  as  depressed.  He  looked  at 
her,  but  darkness  had  fallen  and 
he  could  barely  see  her  face. 
Helen  had  returned  to  die  trailer 
by  this  time,  and  they  were  alone 
on  the  beach.  “I  think  I’ll  build  a 
fire,”  he  said. 

She  helped  him  gather  die 
wood.  They  piled  it  in  front  of  the 
tent,  and  after  the  fire  was  going 
good  they  sat  down  in  the  door- 
way and  warmed  themselves  be- 
fore the  flames.  Glancing  at  her 
sideways,  David  wondered  wheth- 
er he  liked  her  better  as  a blond. 
He  decided  that  he  didn’t.  “The 


116 

first  thing  you’re  going  to  do  when 
we  reach  Bijou-de-mer,"  he  said, 
"is  ,to  dye  your  hair  bach  to  its 
natural  color.” 

She  stared  at  him.  “Why  am  1 
going  to  do  that?” 

“Because  you  look  better  with 
it  natural.  Anyway,  I don’t  like 
the  idea  of  my— my — ” He  paused, 
confused. 

“Go  on — finish  what  you  were 
saying.” 

He  forced  himself  to  meet  her 
cool  gaze.  “It  doesn’t  mean  any- 
thing. It’s  just  that  I’ve  gotten  so 
used  to  living  in  the  same  house 
with  you  and  so  used  to  having 
you  cook  my  meals  and  wash  my 
clothes  that  I — I — ” 

. “That  you’ve  come  to  think  of 
me  as  your  wife — is  that  it?” 

Wretchedly,  he  stared  into  the 
fire.  “It’s  crazy,  isn’t  it?” 

“Positively  insane.” 

He  continued  to  stare  into  the 
fire  because  he  didn’t  want  her  to 
find  out  what  was  in  his  eyes.  But 
she  didn’t  have  to  find  out — she 
already  knew.  He  felt  her  cool 
fingers  touch  his  cheek.  “Poor 
David.  Poor  virtuous,  noble 
David.  You  did  see  me  after  all.” 

“See  you?  See  you  when?” 

“When  you  climbed  up  on  the 
raft.  I thought  you  hadn’t,  and  I 
was  furious.  I’ve  been  furious  ever 
since.  Because  I saw  you.” 

There  was  a dam,  and  his  body 
was  jts  concrete  and  its  reinforc- 
ing steel  and  against  him  tons  and 
tons  of  water  pressed,  seeking  to 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

break  him  apart.  “People  like  you 
are  different  from  people  like  me," 
Barbara  went  on.  “Your  idealism 
sete  you  apart  from  us,  and  we 
know  in  our  hearts  that  you’re  bet- 
ter than  we  are.  And  so  we  try  to 
drag  you  down  to  our  own  level. 
But  we’re  not  really  trying  to  drag 
you  down — it  only  seems  that 
way.  What  we’re  really  trying  to 
do  is  to  lift  ourselves  up.” 

Still,  he  did  not  look  at  her. 
But  he  no  longer  needed  to.  For  she 
was  all  around  him  in  the  night. 
His  golden  moment  had  been  but 
fool’s  gold.  This  was  tike  way  it 
had  been  meant  to  be  all  along. 

When  he  finally  turned  toward 
her,  her  fece  was  so  close  that  he 
could  feel  her  warm  breath  on  his 
lips.  The  dam  broke  then,  and  the 
water  raged  around  him.  The  stars 
dissolved  in  the  sky,  and  the  sky 
opened,  and  all  was  darkness;  all 
was  light.  All  was  lovle. 

After  that,  the  trip  to  the  coast 
had  turned  into  a series  of  tense, 
drawn-out  days  and  eagerly  await- 
ed nights.  From  sunrise  to  sunset, 
there  would  be  Barbara  riding  at 
his  side  and  his  self-hatred  riding 
on  his  shoulders.  Then  there 
would  come  the  time  of  terror — 
the  evening  hours  when  they 
would  watch  Helen  as  she  walked 
up  and  down  in  some  unfrequent- 
ed canyon  or  gamboled  in 
some  deserted  dale.  Surely,  look- 
ing down  upon  their  faces  she 
must  descry  ffieir  guilt,  must  di- 


IN  WHAT  CAV^N  OF  THE  DEEP 

vine  what  would  take  place  later 
on  in  the  darkness  of  the  sports- 
man’s tent  while  she  slept  in  her 
ten-wheeled  bed.  But  if  she  either 
descried  or  divined,  she  gave  no 
sign. 

At  last,  they  reached  Tacoma. 
When  David  found  that  his  mas- 
ter’s certificate  had  arrived,  he 
wasted  no  time  in  getting  started. 
After  settling  up  with  Reese  and 
Harrison,  Inc.  ai)d  making  ar- 
rangements with  them  to  store  the 
tractor  and  trailer  in  one  of  their 
unused  sheds,  he  bou^t  the  addi- 
tional supplies  and  equipment 
that  would  be  needed  on  Bijou-de- 
mer  and  had  everything  delivered 
to  the  private  dock  where  the 
'Nereid  was  berthed.  Late  that 
same  night  when  he  was  sure  the 
dock  was  deserted,  he  drove  the 
tractor  and  trailer  onto  it  and  he 
and  Barbara  and  Helen  loaded 
everything  on  board,  including 
the  items  they  had  brought  with 
them  from  the  farm.  Among  the 
new  items  were  two  refrigerators, 
a deepfreeze,  a washing  machine, 
a new  generator,  and  twenty 
drums  of  gasoline.  These,  Helen 
handled  like  so  many  toys.  When 
the  job  was  finished,  she  secreted 
herself  in  the  special  below-decks 
cabin  that  the  sh4>'building  con- 
cern had  converted  the  yacht’s 
forward  section  into,  and  David 
drove  the  tractor  and  trailer  to  the 
Reese  and  Harrison,  Inc.  ship- 
yards. After  turning  the  outfit  over 
te  the  night  watchman,  he  re- 


1J7 

turned  to  the  dock,  and  by  moni- 
uig  the  Nereid  was  well  on  its  way 
down  the  sound. 

The  voyage  to  Bi^u-de-mer 
proved  to  be  even  more  nerve- 
racking  than  the  trip  to  the  coast. 
David  had  a good  grasp  of  navi- 
gation and  he  was  sufficiently 
Familiar  with  the  engine  room  to 
take  care  of  the  necessary  mainte- 
nance jobs,  but  he  wasn’t  used  to 
being  at  sea  with  no  one  except 
himself  to  turn  to  should  anything 
go  wrong.  And  then  there  was  his 
omnipresent  fear  that  Helen 
would  find  out  what  was  going  on 
behind  her  back.  All  that  made  the 
long  days  and  ni^ts  toler- 
able were  her  ever  longer  absences 
from  the  yacht.  At  first  she  con- 
tented herself  with  swimming 
along  beside  it,  but  as  time  passed 
she  swam  farther  and  farther  out 
into  die  sun-bright  wastes,  some- 
times so  far  that  her  golden  hair 
blended  with  the  sparkling  waves 
and  she  became  invisible.  David 
would  relax  then,  for  he  knew  by 
this  time  that  she  belonged  more 
to  the  sea  than  she  did  to  the  land, 
and  if  it  was  his  tour  of  duty, 
Barbara  would  come  to  him  in  the 
pilot  house,  and  if  it  was  her  tour, 
he  would  go  to  her. 

They  raised  Bijoji-de-mer  on 
the  20th  of  June.  Unloading  the 
supplies  and  equipment  was  a 
simple  enough  (^ration  with 
someone  like  Helen  around,  but  it 
took  the  better  part  of  a week  to 
get  the  bungalow  back  into  shape, 


118 

to  install  the  new  generator,  and 
to  assemble  the  Quonset  hut  he 
had  bou^t  her.  After  that,  time 
faded  into  a dreamlike  sameness 
of  days  and  nights  interrupted 
only  by  the  periodic — and  care- 
fully prepared  for — appearances 
of  the  supply  ship  he  had  engaged 
to  bring  in  fuel  and  fresh  provi- 
sions from  New  Caledonia.  Helen 
spent  more  and  more  time  in  the 
sea,  and  the  changes  that  he  had 
suspected  were  taking  place  in 
her  began  to  be  visible.  Weeks 
lengthened  into  months;  Christ- 
mas Eve  came,  and  was  duly  cele- 
brated with  champagne.  David 
wished  Helen  a Happy  Anniver- 
sary and  she  wished  him  one 
back;  he  spent  the  night  walking 
the  shores  of  the  island  and  she 
spent  it  swimming  far  out  to  sea. 
New  Year's  Day  came  round,  but 
no  one  paid  any  attention  to  it, 
and  after  a while  it  went  away. 

At  length,  the  rainy  season  be- 
gan. 

VI 

It  had  seemed  to  David  as  he 
. sat  in  the  bungalow  that  day  that 
the  rain  had  been  falling  for  cen- 
turies. Raising  his  eyes  from  the 
book  he  was  reading,  he  looked 
through  the  window  and  out  over 
the  misted  rice  paddies  to  where 
the  Nereid  lay  at  anchor  in  the 
harbor.  Beyond  the  yacht,  the 
curtain  of  the  rain  became  im- 
penetrable, but  in  his  mind  he 


FANTASY  AN!>  SCIENCE  FICTION 

could  see  through  the  curtain  and 
out  to  sea — far,  far  out  to  where 
Helen  swam,  her  hair  golden  on 
the  gray,  pock-marked  waves.  She 
was  as  much  a part  of  the  sea  now 
as  were  the  dolphins  that  some- 
times romped  around  her,  as  were 
the  flying  fish  that  sometimes 
skimmed  the  waves  of  her  wake; 
as  was  the  plankton  that  now  con- 
stituted her  only  food.  She  had 
found  her  world,  Helen  had;  but 
he  had  yet  to  discover  what  kind 
of  a world  it  was. 

He  returned  his  attention  to 
his  book.  It  was  a book  on  giants 
and  he  had  brought  it  with  him 
from  the  states,  but  for  all  the 
times  he  had  read  it,  it  had  told 
him  next  to  nothing.  The  giants 
and  the  giantesses  it  dealt  with 
were  mythological  giants,  and  the 
giantess  he  was  concerned  with 
was  real. 

According  to  History,  there  had 
been  no  giants  at  all,  but  accord- 
ing to  legend,  there  had  been 
many.  There  was  Poseidon’s  son, 
Polyphemus,  whom  Odysseus  had 
blinded.  There  were  the  Titans, 
whom  Zeus — presumably  at  least 
— had  hurled  into  the  sunless 
abyss  of  Tartarus.  And  there  were 
the  giants  of  the  Asgard  pantheon. 

But  in  the  last  analysis,  what 
was  history?  As  far  as  the  dim  and 
distant  past  was  concerned,  was- 
n’t it  a sophisticated  interpreta- 
tion of  the  very  legends  it  pretend- 
ed to  disdain?  Who  could  say 
categorically  which  elements  of 


!N  WHAT  CAVERN  OF  THE  DEEP 

those  legemis  were  true  and  which 
of  them  are  not?  Maybe  there  re- 
ally had  been  a race  of  Titans,  and 
maybe  the  forces  of  nature,  as 
symbolized  by  Zeus,  had  de- 
stroyed them  in  some  way.  It  was 
even  possible  that  diey  hadn't 
been  destroyed,  but  had  returned 
to  the  sea.  If  it  was  going  to  be 
argued  that  all  life  ori^nally 
camt  from  the  sea,  then  it  could 
also  be  argued  that  all  life  even- 
tually returned  to  the  sea. 

But  if  Helen  was  a modem^-day 
Titan  who  had  somehow  been 
washed  ashore  as  a child,  how  had 
she  been  able  to  survive  on  land? 

“Why  don’t  you  give  up,  David? 
If  she  doesn't  know  what  she  is, 
how  do  you  expect  to  find  out?” 

He  laid  the  book  aside  and 
looked  over  to  the  couch  where 
Barbara  was  lying  on  her  side, 
watching  him.  “I  suppose  you’re 
right.” 

“Of  course  I’m  right.”  She  sat 
up,  swung  her  bare  feet  to  the 
floor,  and  slipj^d  them  into  slen- 
der sandals.  She  was  wearing  a 
white  sunsuit  that  she  had  made 
herself.  Her  skin  was  dark  from 
the  sun — coffee-colored  almost — 
and  her  hair — dark-brown  once 
again — was  as  recalcitrant  as 
ever.  “I  feel  like  walking.” 

“In  the  rain?” 

“Is  there  somewhere  else  to 
walk?” 

He  was  silent.  She  came  over 
and  stood  by  his  chair  and  looked 
down  into  his  eyes.  “She’s  been 


119 

gone  a long  while  this  time,  iue- 
n't  she?" 

"Since  yesterday  morBing.” 

“I  wonder  where  she  goes.’* 

"God  knows,”  David  said. 

“I  think  her  mind  is  changing, 
too — don’t  you?” 

“Why  do  you  say  that?” 

“Because  of  the  way  she  looks 
at  us.  So  coldly.  So  cfinicaHy.” 
Barbara  shuddered.  “It’s  almost  as 
though  she  knows,  and  is  trying  to 
figure  out  what  makes  pygmies 
like  us  tick.” 

“She  doesn’t  know,”  he  said 
angrily-  “She  doesn’t  even  sus- 
pect!” 

“No,  I suppose  not.  But 
frightens  me  just  the  same,  I don't 
think  she’s  quite  human  any  more. 
Those  little  slits  she’s  developing 
on  the  sides  of  her  neck;  that 
strange  luster  her  skin  is  taking 
on;  the  way  she  spends  almost  all 
her  time  in  the  sea  . . 

David  stood  up.  “You  said  you 
fek  like  walking.  Let's  walk 
then.” 

She  went  over  to  the  door  and 
stepped  out  onto  the  thatch- 
roofed  verandah.  He  got  their 
raincoats  and  followed.  The  rain 
sound  was  louder  here.  “I  don’t 
want  a raincoat,”  she  said,  “I  get 
wetter  with  one  on  than  I do  with 
one  off.  Wear  yours,  if  you  like.” 

She  descended  the  verandah  ' 
steps  and  stood  in  the  rain.  After 
a moment’s  hesitation,  he  cast  the 
raincoats  aside  and  joined  her. 
The  rain  was  warm.  It  soaked  into 


12(4 

his  hair,  penetrateol  his  slacks  and 
diirt.  It  ran  down  his  face  and 
neck.  He  basted  it  on  his  lips. 
Some  of  the  tautness  he  had 
known  for  days  departed  from 
him,  and  he  felt  almost  carefree. 

They  crossed  a small  bridge 
that  spanned  one  of  the  many 
brooks  that  wound  down  from  the 
hills.  The  brook  was  a muddy 
torrent  now,  rushing  pell-mell  to 
the  sea,  and  the  once-green  hills 
had  drawn  gray  sheets  of  mist 
around  their  shoulders.  Barbara 
rounded  the  Quonset  hut  and 
started  across  the  embankment 
toward  the  beach,  David  just  be- 
hind her.  The  paddies  were  riot- 
ous with  rice  gone  wild,  and  in 
some  places  die  lush  growth  was 
so  high  that  be  could  have 
reached  cmt  and  touched  it.  The 
fertility  evoked  by  the  rain  was 
almost  tangible. 

Erosion  had  narrowed  the 
once-wide  walkway  to  a precari- 
ous path,  and  when  they  were 
halfway  across  Barbara  lost  her 
footing.  David  grabbed  her  to 
keep  her  from  falling,  and  in  the 
process  lost  his  footing  too.  For  a 
moment  they  clung  together, 
fighting  to  regain  their  balance; 
then,  the  battle  lost,  they  went 
tumbling  down  the  steep  slope 
into  the  knee-deep  muddy  water. 
Gasping,  soaked  to -the  sldn,  they 
struggled  to  their  feet.  Barbara 
began  to  laugh.  Presently,  he 
joined  her.  It  was  the  first  time  he 
had  laughed  for  months. 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

There  was  a smear  of  mud  on 
her  dieek.  He  wiped  it  off,  left  a 
l^ger  one.  H^  hair  clung  in  dark 
streaks  to  her  face  and  neck,  and 
her  once-immaculate  sunsuit  was 
unrecognizable,  “You  look  like  a 
drowned  rat,"  he  told  her. 

“It’s  worth  it  to  hear  you  laugh 
again.  Besides  which,  you  look 
Hke  one  yourself.” 

They  scrambled  and  clawed 
their  way  back  up  the  slope  and 
arrived  on  the  path  muddier  and 
more  bedraggled  than  they  had 
been  before.  “It’s  me  for  a dip,” 
Barbara  cried  when  they  reached 
the  beach,  and  running  through 
the  brief  shallows,  she  plunged 
into  the  water,  clothes  and  all. 

David  followed.  The  water  was 
warmer  than  the  rain.  He  sur- 
faced so  close  to  her  that  her  wet 
hair  clung  to  his  face.  He  kissed 
her,  and  they  clung  together  with 
all  their  might,  the  rain  pouring 
down  upon  them  and  then  the 
waters  of  the  sea  rising  above 
them  as  their  interlocked  bodies 
pulled  them  down.  She  broke  free 
from  his  arms  then,  and  waded 
through  the  shallows  to  the  shore 
and  began  running  along  the 
beach  in  the  foreground  of  one  of 
the  cocoanut  groves.  At  lengA,  she 
plunged  into  the  grove  and  disap- 
peared. 

Heart  pounding,  he  stumbled 
after  her.  In  the  wet  and  drippmg 
underbrush  that  grew  between  the 
neglected  rows  of  palms  he  looked 
wUdly  around  fbr  her.  He  did  not 


IN  WHAT  CAVERN  OF  THE  SEEP 

see  her,  but  she  had  left  a trail. 
Her  sandals  first;  then  her  sun- 
suit  . . . her  underthings  last 
of  all.  She  was  waiting  for  him  in 
a little  clearing  in  the  brush.  The 
rain  made  pattering  sounds  on 
the  palm  fronds  as  they  kissed. 
The  wet  grass  seemed  to  reach  up 
and  drag  them  down,  and  the 
sound  of  their  breathing  sub- 
merged the  sound  of  the  rain. 

A long  while  later,  when  her 
breathing  seemed  to  cease,  he 
raised  his  head  and  looked  down 
into  her  face.  She  was  staring 
straight  upward,  and  her  eyes 
were  filled  with  terror.  At  first 
when  he  followed  her  gaze  he  saw 
nothing  but  the  palm  fronds  that 
canopied  their  bower.  Then  he 
saw  that  the  fronds  had  been  part- 
ed and  that  someone  was  peering 
down  through  the  opening.  He 
saw  the  Brobdingnagian  face 
then,  and  the  enormous  azure 
eyes.  The  sky  seemed  to  lower; 
the  thunder  of  the  leitmotiv  rolled 
awesomely  tn  from  the  sea.  And 
then  the  fronds  fell  back  into 
place  and  the  face  disappeared. 

Night  had  fallen  by  the  time 
they  got  back  to  the  hill.  The 
Quonset  hut  was  empty,  and  they 
knew  that  Helen  had  swum  back 
out  to  sea. 

This  time,  she  did  not  return. 

VII 

The  large  and  gigantic,  though 
very  compatible  with  the  sublime, 


121 

is -contrary  to  the  beautiful.  It  i$ 
impossible  to  suppose  a giant  the 
object  of  love.  When  we  let  our 
imaginations  loose  in  romance, 
the  ideas  we  naUirally  annex  to 
that  size  are  those  of  tyranny, 
cruelty,  injustice,  and  everything 
horrid  and  abominable.  We  paint  ^ 
the  giant  ravaging  the  country, 
plundering  the  innocent  travel- 
ler, and  afterwards  gorged  with 
his  half'living  flesh:  such  are 
Polyphemus,  Cacus,  and  others, 
who  make  so  great  a figure  in  ro- 
mance and  heroic  poems.  The 
event  we  attend  to  with  the  great- 
est satisfaction  is  their  defeat  and 
death. 

— Edmund  Burke:  On  the  Sub- 
lime and  Beautiful 

David  looked  down  at  his 
hands.  The  heat  of  the  flames  had 
dried  them,  and  the  glistening 
drops  were  gone. 

He  remembered  the  cup  of  cof- 
fee he  had  poured  and  left  for- 
gotten on  the  kitchen  stove,  and 
he  forced  himself  to  return  to  the 
memoried  room.  The  cofFee  was 
cold  now,  but  he  didn’t  bother  to 
pour  another  cupful.  Instead,  he 
carried  the  cup  into  the  living 
room  and  set  it  on  the  mantle — 
and  promptly  forgot  it  again. 

He  looked  through  the  living 
room  window,  saw  Barbara  stand- 
ing on  the  cliff  and  gazing  out  to 
sea.  Snow  slanted  down  around 
her  and  the  wind  whipped  her 
coat.  Even  in  the  cottage  he  could 
hear  the  crashing  of  the  waves  on 


122 


the  little  beach  at  the  cliff’s  base. 

Involuntarily,  his  eyes  moved 
from  Barbara  to  the  small  howitzer 
that  crouched  beside  her.  And 
David  chose  him  -five  smooth 
stones . . . and  his  sling  li^as  in  his 
hand  ... 

He  looked  away  from  the  win- 
dow, looked  down  into  the  flames. 
He  resumed  his  painstaking 
search  of  his  soul. 

Had  he  been  right  in  contact- 
ing the  Pacific  Fleet  when  he 
learned  that  it  was  in  the  vicinity 
of  Bijou'de'mer?  Granted,  the 
search  that  he  had  asked  the  ad- 
miral to  make  would  have  been 
made  anyway,  but  the  fact  still 
remained  that  for  the  second  time 
in  the  space  of  three  days  he  had 
betrayed  the  i^man  he  loved. 

He  had  expected  to  have  a hard 
time  convincing  the  admiral  that 
sheeven  existed,  but  it  turned  out 
that  the  admiral  already  knew 
about  her.  He  showed  David  a 
picture  after  summoning  him  on 
board  the  flagship  and  listening  to 
his  story.  “Is  this  your  wife,  Mr. 
Stuart  r”  he  asked. 

David  stared  at  the  picture.  It 
was  a blow-up  of  a high-altitude 
aerial  photograph  and  it  showed 
Helen  lying  on  Bijou-de-mer’s 
coral  beach  clad  in  one  of  the 
huge  sunsuits  Barbara  had  made 
for  her.  “Where — ?”  he  began. 

“Several  days  ago,  one  of  our 
pilots  took  a number  of  hlgh-alti- 
tude  shots  while  he  was  on  a prac- 
tice mission.  That’s  a blown  up 


FANTASY  ANB  SCIENCE  FICTION 

version  of  one  of  them.  At  first 
when  I looked  at  it  and  saw  the 
woman  lying  on  the  beach,  I did- 
n’t think  too  much  about  it.  I 
simply  took  it  for  granted  that  die 
island  was  covered  with  kunai 
and  that  her  dimensions  were 
perfectly  normal.  Then  I saw  that 
what  I’d  instinctively  taken  for 
grass  wasn’t  grass  at  all,  but  trees, 
and  it  dawned  on  me  that  I was* 
looking  at  a photograph  of  a giant. 

I didn’t  want  to  believe  it,  but 
photographs  like  that  don’t  lie, 
and  I had  to  believe  it.  Now, 
you’ve  told  me  that  you  think  she’s 
running  away — although  you 
haven’t  told  me  why  you  think  so 
— and  you’ve  asked  me  to  find  her. 
Suppose  I succeed — what  then^’’ 

"I’ll  see  to  it  that  she  returns  to 
BifoU'de-mer"  David  said.  “And 
you’ll  see  to  it,  I hope,  that  the 
whole  thing  gets  as  little  publicity 
as  possible.” 

“But  what  if  she  doesn’t  want  to 
return  to  Bijou-de-mer?” 

“I’ll  talk  to  her.  I’m  sure  she’ll 
understand  that  there’s  nothing 
else  she  can  do.” 

“And  after  she  returns?” 

“Why,  she’ll  go  on  living  there 
for  the  rest  of  her  life.  Where  else 
can  she  live?  Where  else  can  she 
find  the  privacy  she  has  to  have?” 

‘Tm  afraid  it’s  not  quite  that 
simple  any  more,  Mr.  Stuart.  Even 
if  I could  guarantee  you  complete 
secrecy  in  ■ the  matter,  which  I 
can’t,  it  wouldn't  do  you  much 
good.  The  cat’s  already  out  of  the 


IN  WHAT  CAVERN  OF  THE  BEEP 

bag.  Just  tbis  morning  I received 
a report  that  the  crew  of  a New 
Zealand  freighter  sighted  a deep- 
sea  monster  which  they  described 
as  a *giant  mermaid  with  legs’. 
You  can  be  sure  that  the  item  will 
find  its  way  into  the  newspapers 
and  you  can  also  be  sure  that 
there’ll  be  other  sightings — unless 
your  wife  returns  to  the  unfre- 
quented waters  in  the  neighbor- 
hiO(»d  of  your  island.  But  in  the 
long  run,  even  that  may  not  help 
you.  You  may  find  yourself  with 
more  publicity  on  your  hands  that 
the  creators  of  the  Cardiff  Giant 
ever  dreamed  of,  in  which  case 
your  island  will  provide  your  wife 
with  about  as  much  privacy  as 
Grand  Central  Station 

“Then  I'll  just  have  to  find 
somewhere  else  for  her  to  live.  The 
important  thing  now  is  to  find 
her/’ 

“If  we  do  find  her,  you’ll  be 
notified  immediately,  of  course. 
But  since  there’s  no  precedent  for 
this  sort  of  thing,  I can’t  advise 
you  as  to  what  will  happen  after- 
wards. But  if  she’s  your  wife  as 
you  claim,  you  certainly  ought  to 
have  a lot  to  say  in  the  matter.” 
The  admiral  leaned  across  his 
desk.  “Mr.  Stuart,  if  what  you’ve 
told  me  is  true,  you've  lived  with 
this  situation  for  a long  time.  Do 
you  have  any  idea  how  your  wife 
could  have  turned  into  a giant?” 

David  remembered  his  tentative 
theory  about  the  Titans,  but  he 
didn’t  voice  it  because  to  have 


123 

done  so  would  have  been  tanta- 
mount to  admitting  that  he  didn’t 
think  Helen  was  completely 
human,  “No  sir,”  he  said,  “I’m 
afraid  I have  no  idea  at  alL” 

In  the  weeks  and  months  that 
followed,  Helen  was  sighted  again 
and  again,  and  the  secret  that 
David  had  gone  to  such  lengths  to 
keep  came  gradually  into  the  pub- 
lic domain.  The  various  special- 
ists whom  he  and  Helen  had  con- 
sulted were  ferreted  out  by  news- 
men and  interviewed  again 
and  again.  One  of  them  stated 
that  Helen  couldn’t  possibly  have 
grown  as  large  as  the  reports  indi- 
cated for  the  simple  reason  that 
her  bones  would  have  been  incap- 
able of  sustaining  that  much  ad- 
ditional weight.  Another  of  them 
said  that  it  was  ridiculous  to  sup- 
pose that  her  bones  wouldn’t  have 
undergone  compensatory  changes. 
The  poacher  who  had  seen  her 
swimming  in  the  little  lake 
stepped  to  the  fore  and  told  his 
version  of  the  incident  again  and 
again,  adding  a little  to  it  each 
time.  His  gjiusted  story,  "I  Saw 
the  Sea  Monster  in  a Lake”  ap- 
peared in  newspapers  throughout 
the  world,  and  he  himself  ap- 
peared on  “I  Know  A Secret”, 
“Truth  To  Tell”,  and,  when  it  was 
discovered  that  he  had  an  eidetic 
memory  and  could  recite  the  nov- 
els of  Harold  Bell  Wright  word  for 
word,  on  “Name  Your  Category”. 

Australia  joined  in  the  search. 
So  did  France,  Holland,  and  Ja- 


124 


VAKTIUT  AMO  SCIENCS  FldlON 


pan,  Helen  was  s^ted  off  Kcdi 
Fomt  as  siie  swam  between  the 
Florida  Islands  and  Guadalcanal. 
S^e  was  sighted  off  the  coast  of 
Vella  La^?ella.  She  was  sighted  in 
the  Bistnark  Archipelago.  She  was 
sighted  hetw^n  the  Gilbert  and 
-Ellice  Islands.  But  all  of  the 
s^htmgs  were  unofficial,  and  by 
tiK  time  the  various  search  forces 
arrived  on  the  scene  she  no 
kjuger  in  die  vicinity. 

ICnowing  how  hopeless  it  would 
be  to  try  to  find  her  with  nothing 
hut  a yacht  at  his  disposal,  David 
remained  on  the  island  with  Bar- 
bara and  foUow^  the  search  on 
radio.  At  first  there  was  no 
discernible  pattern  in  the  sight- 
ings, but  at  length  one  became 
apparent.  Even  after  he  spotted  it, 
however,  he  didn’t  realize  its  im- 
plications until,  several  weeks  af- 
ter she  had  been  sighted  south  of 
Tuamotu,  die  was  seen  in  Drake 
Passage;  and  the  real  tnith  didn’t 
dawn  on  him  until  he  heard  that 
she  had  been  seen  in  the  Strait  of 
Magellan. 

Hating  Bifou'de'mer  and  all  it 
^x>od  for,  she  was  heading  for  the 
only  other  home  that  was  still  ac- 
• cessible  to  her — the  cottage  on 
the  Connecticut  coast.  And  she 
was  letting  herself  be  sighted 
so  that  he  would  know.  So  that  he 
would  be  there  waiting  for  her 
when  she  swam  in  from  the  sea. 

He  wouM  not  disappoint  her. 

In  September,  1«  aiwl  Barbara 
left  Bij9H-de-mer  and  set  their 


cour^  for  Santa  Cruz.  Arriving 
tlwre,  they  hired  a crew,  and  then 
they  t^an  the  voyage  hmne. 
Again,  IMvId  decided  to  go  by 
way  of  Tacoma.  There  was  no 
hurry,  for  it  would  take  Helen  till 
Dec^ber  at  least  to  reach  the 
cottage.  Probably  she  wouldn’t 
get  there  much  before  ChristniM. 
The  whole  truth  dawned  on  him 
then,  and  left  him  stricken.  She 
wasn't  making  the  fanta^c  jour- 
ney just  to  meet  him  at  the  cottage 
— she  was  making  it  meet  him 
there  on  their  fourth  wedding  sui- 
niversary.  , 

He  began  to  hate  the  ground  he 
walked  on. 

The  Nereid  reach«l  Tacoma 
early  in  Octol^r.  On  the  same  day 
it  docked,  a news  story  that  cli- 
maxed ail  previous  accounts  of 
the  “sightings"  appeared  on  the 
front  page  of  every  newspaper  in 
the  country.  An. American  whal- 
ing ship  had  sighted  Helen  in  the 
South  Atlantic  and  dispatched  a 
catcher  to  intercept  her.  She  had 
attacked  die  catcher  and  over- 
turned it — entirely  without  prov- 
ocation according  to  the  report — 
and  when  the  factory  ship  had 
come  to  the  rescue  she  had  surface- 
dived  and  disappeared  from  si^t. 
But  that  wasn’t  the  worst  of  it. 
Two  of  the  catcher’s  crew  were 
missing,  and  as  yet  no  hrace  of 
them  had  been  found . 

What  had  happened  was  quite 
clear — if  you  believed  what  ev- 
eryone saymg,  “Gtdiatha"  had 


IN  WHAT  CAVERN  OF  THE  DEEP 

carried  the  two  men  into  the  deep 
with  her  and  devoured  them. 

Yes,  she  had  a giant's  name 
now  as  well  as  a giant’s  reputa- 
tion. And  a thrilled  and  delighted 
audience.  Never  had  a nation’s 
morale  been  so  high;  never  had 
neighbor  felt  kindlier  toward 
neighbor.  For  now  there  was  a 
common  enemy  whom  all  could 
hate  to  their  hearts’  content — a 
monster  whose  eventual  ^'defeat 
and  death”  all  could  “attend  to 
with  the  greatest  satisfaction.” 

As  for  David,  he  was  horrified. 
He  was  doubly  horrified  when  he 
learned  that  Congress,  anticipat- 
ing Goliatha’s  capture,  was  ap- 
propriating funds  to  build  a spe- 
cial prison  where  she  would  be 
held  for  trial  and  a special  court 
house  where  justice  would  be 
meted  out  to  her.  Once  again  so- 
ciety had  been  affronted,  and 
once  again  society  was  out  to  ex- 
act an  eye  for  an  eye.  And  in  this 
instance,  revenge  would  be  ob- 
tained whether  the  accused  was 
convicted  or  not.  The  court  house 
would  take  on  the  overtones  of  a 
zoo  and  the  trial  would  destroy 
her  as  utterly  as  an  atomic  bomb 
would  have.  Society  was  a far 
more  fearsome  giant  than  the  gi- 
ant whose  blood  is  thirsted  for. 

There  was  only  one  thing  to  do. 
Like  all  men,  David  had  to  kill 
the  thing  he  loved- 

He  had  not  worn  his  scarlet 
cloak  when  he  and  Barbara  trav- 


125 

eled  incognito  from  Washing- 
ton to  Connecticut.  He  had  hot 
worn  it  when  he  secretly  arranged 
for  the  purchase  and  the  emplace- 
ment of  the  howitzer. 

He  did  not  wear  it  now. 

Had  the  wind  spoken  his  name? 
He  listened.  “Da  . . . vidJ  Da 
. . . vid!” 

He  stepped  over  to  the  window 
and  looked  out.  Barbara  beckoned 
to  him  frantically,  then  turned 
and  pointed  out  to  sea. 

The  momenthad  come. 

Numbly,  he  got  into  his  shoes 
and  his  g^oshes.  Then  he  donned 
his  mackinaw  and  plunged  hat- 
less into  the  wind-slanted  snow. 
At  the  cliff’s  edge,  he  stopped  and 
looked  out  to  sea. 

He  saw  the  gulls  first — great 
clouds  of  them  circling  in  the 
lowering  sky.  Then  he  saw  the 
dolphins  leaping  from  the  leaden 
waves.  Finally,  he  saw  the  golden 
kelp-beds  of  her  hair. 

He  dropped  to  his  knees  beside 
the  howitzer.  This  day  hath 
Lord  delivered  thee  into  mine 
hand  . . . 

The  leitmotiv  sounded  once 
again,  grew  in  volume  as  she  wad- 
ed in  from  the  sea.  She  seemed 
made  of  shining  gold,  and  golden 
garments  that  matched  her  golden 
skin  adorned  her  breasts  and 
loins.  A golden  tiara  crowned  her 
golden  bead,  and  her  golden  hair 
fell  down  around  her  shoulders  in 
glistening  golden  strands.  She 
grew  out  of  the  water  till  she  stood 


126 


Hghthouse-tall  in  tiie  morning — 
fair  as  the  moon,  clear  es  the  sun 
, . . terrible  as  an  army  with 
himners. 

She  halted  a dozen  y£a:ds  from 
the  cliff.  A trident  gleamed  in  one 
of  her  golden  hands.  Behind  her, 
dolphins  leaped.  Above  her  cir- 
cled the  gulls.  David  looked  upon 
her  face.  It  was  different  now.  It 
was  frightening  in  a way.  But  her 
eyes  stiU  held  the  blueness  of 
a September  sky  and  her  mouth 
still  knew  the  softness  of  a sum- 
mer night. 

Her  vofce,  too,  was  as  gentle  as 
he  remembered  it.  'Tou  needn^t 
worry  about  me  any  more,  David 
— Fve  found  my  own  kind/ 

His  sling  and  stones  forgc^ten, 
he  straightened  to  his  feet.  “Then 
the  Titans  did  return  to  the  sea!” 

“It  may  have  been  the  Titans. 
It  all  happened  so  long  ago  that 
we  aren’t  sure  who  our  ancestors 
were  ourselves.  But  we  know  that 
originally  they  lived  on  land. 
When  thfe  waters  b^an  to  rise — 
probably  diuing  cme  of  the  glacial 
retreats— ti\ey  must  have  thought 
that  everything  would  be  sub- 
merged. Anyway,  they  adapted 
•themselves  to  live  beneath  the  sea, 
and  once  they’d  done  so,  they 
couldn’t  le-adapt  themselves  to 
Uve  above  it.” 

"Then  how  were  yqn  able  to 
live  on  land?” 

"fm  an  atavism — a throwback 
to  the  days  when  my  ancestors 
were  still  in  the  process  of  adjust- 


VANTASr  AND  SCSSNCS  FICtiON 

ing  themselves  to  ffieir  new  way 
of  life.  It  took  them  centuries,  and 
at  first  heredity  didn't  fiim^on. 
Children  had  to  be  brou^  up  on 
land  and  allowed  to  adapt  them- 
selves gradually.  Only  when  t^y 
reached  adulthood  were  they 
ready  to  live  beneath  the  sea.  ]u$t 
as  I’m  ready  now.  1 would  have 
died  the  same  day  I was  born  if 
mv  parents  hadn’t  put  me  on  land. 
They  wrapped  me  in  seaweed  and 
held  me  above  the  surface  of  the 
sea,  and  as  soon  as  they  could  do  so 
without  being  seen  they  swam 
into  shore  and  left  me  wl^e 
someone  would  be  sure  to  find  me. 
After  that,  all  they  could  do  was 
hope  that  I’d  survive  till  I reached 
maturity.  I was  less  than  a day  old 
when  my  foster  father  found  me. 
Just  a baby.  We’re  different  from 
land  people.  We  reach  puberty 
two  years  a^r  we’re  born,  adoles- 
cence fmir  years  later,  and  adult- 
hood eight  years  later.  And  the 
older  we  b^ome,  the  faster  we 
grow.  I’m  the  first  atavism  to  crop 
up  in  thousands  of  years,  hut 
there-  used  to  be  lots  of  them. 
That's  why  your  folklore  is  so  full 
of  giants.” 

David  looked  out  over  the  gray- 
snow-pocked  wastes  that  spread 
beyond  her  golden  shoulders.  He 
shivered.  “But  the  cold,”  he  said. 
“The  darkness  and  the  terrible 
pressure.  How  can  you  possibly 
live  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea?” 

“We  don’t  live  at  the  bottom. 
We  live  on  tl^  tops  of  gayots  and 


IN  WHAT  CAVERN  OF  THE  DEEP 

on  continental  shelves,  and  izl 
caverns  in  the  walls  of  the 
submarine  canyons  that  cut  back 
in  from  the  continental  slopes. 
And  it's  not  so  different  from  liv- 
ing on  land  as  you  might  think. 
We  have  underwater  farms  where 
we  raise  some  kinds  of  algae  for 
food,  and  underwater  factories 
where  we  process  other  kinds  and 
make  clothes  out  of  it.  Most  of  us 
live  in  small  communities,  but  on 
some  of  the  larger  guyots  there  are 
regular  cities.  It’s  a good  life,  and 
a safe  one.  We  have  two  heredi- 
tary enemies — the  white  shark 
and  the  tiger  whale — but  they’re 
no  match  for  us  when  we're  armed, 
especially  today.  Our  ancestors 
used  to  make  their  tridents  out  of 
wooden  masts  or  ribs,  and  some- 
times they  broke;  but  we  have 
much  better  materials  to  choose 
from,  and  ours  never  break.” 

David  looked  deep  into  the 
giant  blue  eyes.  "Did  you  attack 
the  whaling  crew?”  he  asked. 

"Only  because  I had  to,  David. 
They  were  trying  to  harpoon  me, 
and  they  would  have  killed  me  if 
I hadn’t  upset  their  boat.  When  I 
dived  afterwards,  two  of  them 
were  caught  in  the  suction  and 
phlled  down.  I’ve  felt  terrible 
about  it  ever  since.” 

She  reached  into  a golden 
pouch  that  hung  at  her  side, 
withdrew  a tiny  object,  and  laid 
it  at  Barbara’s  feet.  Barbara 
picked  it  up.  It  was  Helen’s  wed- 
ding ring.  "I  was  hurt  at  first,” 


127 

Helen  said,  "and  I wanted  to  get 
as  far  away  firom  BifoH'de-mer  as 
I could.  But  after  a while  I got 
over  it,  and  I saw  that  it  was  only 
natural  that  the  two  of  you  should 
have  fallen  in  love.  So  I came 
here,  hoping  you’d  guess  where  I 
was  going  and  come  to  meet  me.” 
She  looked  at  Barbara.  "Good  by, 
little  sister,”  she  said.  The  enor- 
mous azure  eyes  came  softly  to 
rest  on  David’s  face.  "Good  by, 
sweet  gentle  David.” 

She  turned,  and  the  gulls  cir- 
cled higher.  The  dolphins  leaped 
above  the  waves.  The  waters  rose 
around  her  as  she  waded  into  the 
sea. 

"Don’t  go  yet,”  David  called. 
"Don’t  go  yet — please!” 

She  did  not  pause.  The  waters 
rose  higher,  swirled  around  her 
waist.  He  no  longer  loved  her — 
he  knew  that  now.  Not  in  the  way 
he  had  loved  her  before.  But  he 
loved  her  in  a different — perhaps 
a nobler — way,  and  seeing  her 
walk  all  alone  into  the  vast  and 
lonely  wastes  of  the  sea  was  more 
than  he  could  bear.  So  he  called 
again:  “Don’t  go  yet!  Don’t  go  yet 
— pleaseT 

She  turned  then,  and  looked 
back  at  him.  She  smiled,  and 
shook  her  head.  There  was  sadness 
in  the  smile,  but  there  was  happi- 
ness, too.  A strange,  secret  happi- 
ness ...  As  he  watched,  the 
waters  near  her  swirled  and  ed- 
died; then  they  parted,  and  a 
great  golden  head  appeared.  Gold- 


m 

m shoals  of  shouMers,  cyclopesn 
arms  ...  In  a great  surge  of 
Jbam,  her  new  mate  rose  out  of  the 
sea  beside  her,  and  she  turned  and 
looked  up  into  his  great  bhie  eyes> 
His  low  for  her  and  her  love  for 
him  shone  thrmigh  the  slanting 
snow.  Together,  they  began  swim- 
ming out  to  sea. 

The  dolphins  leaped,  the  gulls 
ndieeled.  Hie  wind  doubled  its 
strength  and  the  snow  came  down 
in  wild  and  furious  whiteness. 
Just  before  they  dived  they  rose 
high  out  of  the  waves,  and  a single 
ray  of  sunlight  stabbed  down 
through  a sudden  diasm  in  the 
clouds  and  burnished  their  gleam- 
ing bodies  into  blinding  bri^t- 
ness;  and  then  die  ray  was  gone 
and  the  brightness  was  no  more, 


FAHTASr  AND  Kn&IWB  PICTIOH 

and  nothing  broke  the  surface  of 
the  sea  except  the  leaping  dol- 
phins and  the  pock-marks  of  die 
foiling  snow. 

Tears  were  running  down  Bar-' 
bara’s  cheeks.  David  put  his  arm 
around  her  shoulders.  'It’s  all 
right  now,”  he  said.  "Finally  die’s 
free." 

He  looked  out  over  the  vastness, 
over  the  sweep  of  wave  mid 
trough.  He  remembered  die 
canvas  she  had  painted  in  die 
heyday  of  their  love — the  eerie 
palace  and  the  slender  towers,  die 
^ange  rays  and  the  filmy  phc^ 
phorescences  and  the  piscine 
birds.  It  was  like  a line  of  Shel- 
ley’s almost.  "In  what  cavern  dt 
die  deep,"  he  whispered,  “will  diy 
pinions  cfose  now?^' 


Manp  and  Reprisal  • Arsenal  Pert  • Admiralb 

fferee  short  novels  by  POUL  ANDERSON 


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